The World is Lit by Lightning
by MireilleBlue
Summary: Irina Spalko survives her encounter with the space-between-spaces, only to find herself in American custody. Meanwhile, Indiana Jones is forced to assist the FBI with a unique investigation.
1. Iquitos, May 1957

The truck bumped its way through the cobbled alleyways of inner Iquitos, jostling the prisoners who were restrained in the cargo hold. Irina Spalko leaned against the cool metal wall, keeping a neutral expression on her face. Behind her back, she twisted her hands fiercely in their restraints, trying to break the chain that held the manacles together. She had been working at it for the better part of twelve hours, ever since they left the ruins of Akator in the middle of the rainforest. Her wrists were chafed and covered with blood, and her fractured arm ached. When they'd found her at Akator, barely conscious and pinned under a pile of rubble, she'd had no feeling in that arm at all. Spalko, however, wouldn't be distracted by a bit of temporary pain. She tugged her wrists apart again, glancing warily at the American soldier who sat across the hold, automatic rifle in his hands.

In the hold, too, were a few unlucky members of her squadron, those who had survived the debacle at Akator. She counted six soldiers in total, all in various states of disrepair. The most grievously injured lay unconscious on the floor, blood soaking a bandage across his forehead. They were all willing to sacrifice for the Soviet Union, but she still felt a cold prick of guilt when she thought of what was coming. No doubt they would all be tortured when they arrived at their destination, and Spalko hoped that the men would die quickly. She was the only one who held information of value, but she expected the Americans to use her men as leverage.

With this grim thought in her mind, Spalko felt the truck start to slow. They were in a populated area, and she could hear the faint strum of Peruvian folk music, the distant clamor of voices and traffic. A light rain hissed against the canvas roof. She guessed that they were in Iquitos. The vehicle took a sharp turn and stopped; the guard snapped to attention.

"The prisoners will remain still." He repeated the phrase in crude Russian, probably for the benefit of her soldiers.

Spalko sneered. "My men do speak English."

"Shut up."

She struggled as the back of the truck flew open and a sack was placed over her head. Someone jerked her to her feet, and she was bundled out into the rain. She heard her soldiers disembarking behind her.

"Let's go."

* * *

Spalko found herself alone in a small cement room, shackled to a table. The soldiers had deposited her there after a short walk, yanking off the blindfold and slamming the door behind them. The floor was cold against her bare feet, and she still wore the dirty and torn fatigues from Akator. Her arm burned with a white pain.

Taking advantage of the solitude, she glanced around the room, noting the placement of security cameras, the typewriter in the corner. She estimated that it would take her ten steps to reach the door. Twenty to reach the end of the passageway. Her heartbeat was quick and erratic, and her throat felt dry. The Americans hadn't given her anything to eat or drink. Pushing the useless panic aside, she forced herself to continue her inspection. A telephone on the wall. A locked cabinet behind her. The room was otherwise empty.

The last thing Spalko remembered was the spinning of the dais in the throne room. She had approached the Being and asked for knowledge, the only thing she had ever truly craved. She remembered the elation, the raw power of staring into the eyes of the Being, feeling her own abilities dim in comparison. It had been the culmination of years of careful research, cultivating her own gifts and searching for an explanation for the mysterious phenomena she'd witnessed.

But the power of the Beings was too nebulous, too unwieldy to develop into a useful weapon. Trying to harness it had nearly killed her. When – if – she made it back to Moscow, Spalko would advise the directorate to terminate the special project. They would be interested to hear of her findings, and even more interested in the Americans' apparent foreknowledge of their plot.

Spalko heard the distant tap of footsteps. She schooled her face into an expression of cool disdain. Fear made a lump in her throat, but she ignored it, trying not to imagine what they would do to her. She would never betray the Motherland. The Americans could break every bone in her body, but her allegiance would always belong to the Soviet Union.

With a rattle, the door swung open. A balding, olive-skinned man stepped carefully through the door, smoothing his suit with one hand. A thick manila folder was tucked under his arm. Before speaking, he sat across the desk and laid the folder between them, almost casually. He glanced at his watch.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Spalko."

Spalko just stared at him. "What do you want with me?"

"What do you think?" His voice was soft, with a slight American twang, but there was something about him that put Spalko ill-at-ease. Leaning back in his chair, he considered her, steepling his fingers before him.

She let the silence drag on for a moment. Then: "The matter with Jones."

"Yes, we'll start there. But first—" He sprung up from his chair, going to the door. Another man stepped in, carrying a plate of food and a cup of water. "Would you like something to eat?"

Spalko narrowed her eyes warily. The second man sat the meal down on the desk, just out of her reach, and then disappeared through the door. Her throat was raw with thirst, and she waited impatiently for the interrogator to undo her shackles.

"You may have this meal, Dr. Spalko, on one condition."

"Condition?"

"Yes. Tell us the name of your direct superior."

Her hopes plunged, but she forced herself to remain passive. "You know I cannot disclose that, Agent…"

"…Agent Marino. And yes, you'll need to give me the information first. Something for me, something for you."

"No."

"Suit yourself." He sprung up, retrieving the plate. "I will return in an hour. I expect you will have revised your decision by then."

* * *

Indiana Jones walked up the squat stucco building with a weary sigh. His boots slipped against the worn cobblestones, and he caught the familiar smell of wood smoke and cooking _Tacacho._ He didn't particularly like Iquitos, crowded as it was with scoundrels and fortune-seekers hoping to profit from the rubber boom, but he did like the local cuisine _._ When Ross had called him to the city a few days before, he hadn't argued, although he'd been bitterly disappointed by the change of plans. Marion Ravenwood and her son – _his_ son - had gone ahead to Connecticut, and he was planning to join them as soon as possible.

Thinking of Marion lifted his gloom a little, and he stepped to the gate, tapping a button hidden among the swirls of wrought iron. The place looked more like a residential property than a bunker, and the lack of fortification surprised him. He tapped the button again; this time, a uniformed man emerged from the shadows, carrying an automatic rifle across his back.

"Dr. Jones?"

"I am," he grumbled. "Where's Ross?"

"Inside. Come with me." The guard opened the gate, and they crossed the short walkway to the door. The man keyed a series of notes into a keypad embedded in the door, then unlocked it with a conventional key. Noticing Jones watching him, he smiled slightly. "We make do with what we have."

"I see."

The inside of the building looked more menacing. There were no windows, only a series of locked doors and a dark stairwell leading to a lower level. The guard shepherded him away from the stairwell and towards the nearest door, underneath which faint light spilled into the hallway. The guard tapped twice on the door.

"General Ross, sir. Your visitor has arrived."

* * *

True to his word, Agent Marino returned an hour later, again offering her food in exchange for information. True to her word, Spalko refused.

"I don't understand, Dr. Spalko. Are you not hungry?" He paced the floor in front of her, wearing a puzzled frown.

Spalko listened to the tap of his dress shoes on the concrete, trying to ignore the now-cold plate across the desk. The combination of hunger and harsh fluorescent lights was beginning to make her dizzy. Slumping back in her chair, she waited for him to tire of the silence.

It didn't take more than a few minutes. "…Answer me, Spalko."

"I have nothing to say."

The agent stopped his endless circuit around the small room and approached her chair. "You know we can make you talk."

She scoffed at this and raised her eyebrows haughtily.

"We can." Marino flipped open the manila folder and paged through it. "We already know quite a bit about you. Your role in the Science and Technology Directorate, personal statistics, history of military service…"

"I have no doubt, agent. But you are not interested in those things."

"Correct you are. We know of your high rank within the Soviet bureaucracy, and we suspect you are involved in the development of experimental weapons."

She smiled thinly. "I expect you want to know what we are working on—"

"Yes."

"—But that is not information I am willing to divulge."

Marino slammed the folder shut and straightened up. Without a word, he crossed to the door and opened it.

"Good evening, sir."

With a nod, Marino ushered the other man inside. He was squat and well-muscled, with hair cut short against his scalp. A cudgel hung menacingly at his side. Unholstering the weapon, he took a few steps towards her, biting his lip.

Spalko felt dread settle in her chest, damp and heavy. She had passed her counterinterrogation training with flying colors, but she wasn't looking forward to testing her resolve. Her hands shook, and she fought to still them.

"…If you refuse to be reasonable, I will be forced to question you more aggressively. Tread lightly, Spalko." There was nothing mild in his voice now, and she felt the electricity of his anger.

She wouldn't be cowed. "You've put me in a difficult position, Agent Marino."

"Allow me to make it simple. Cooperate, or you will be beaten."

Before the agent had time to react, Spalko lunged forward, shoving over the table between them. Her hands and feet were restrained, which limited her range of motion. Stumbling backward, she managed to pull one hand free of the cuff, scraping off a good deal of skin in the process. Within a second, the guard had closed the gap between them. Swinging his club, he crushed the weapon into her fractured upper arm. Spalko went down, momentarily blinded by the pain.

The guard took the opportunity to subdue her, replacing the cuff.

Across the room, Marino got shakily to his feet, brushing off his suit coat. "You will…regret that foolish display."

Spalko barely heard him. Curled up on the floor, she hissed through her teeth, pulling the injured arm close to her body.

"…Guard McCrea, has Jones arrived?"

"Yes, sir. He arrived at 1100 hours, sir."

"Bring him to me."

* * *

"Indy, I'm so glad you're here! Come in."

Ross waved him into the small room and gestured to a chair in the corner. The room was spartan and clean, with a polished oak desk and neat stacks of folders. The sole window was covered over with tar paper.

"I trust you had a comfortable journey?"

Jones nodded, settling into the seat. Pulling off his battered fedora hat, he laid it carefully over his knees. "It was fine, thanks."

This was true. Ross' agents had stopped him at the small airport in Lima, directing him to a plush sedan waiting outside. He had been irritated at the interruption to his plans, but at least the journey to Iquitos had been bearable. He leaned forward, stroking his chin.

"Why do you want me here, general?"

Ross sighed and settled his lanky frame into the tiny desk chair. "Spalko. We've apprehended her."

"Really?" Indy's surprise was genuine. The last he'd seen of her, she had been planted stubbornly in the middle of the throne room, babbling about sight and knowledge. Her survival had seemed unlikely. Suddenly, his tiresome trip to Iquitos became a bit more interesting.

"Yes. Our patrols found her beneath the rubble. She is in remarkably good shape, but we don't think she'll cooperate with our interrogation."

Jones grimaced and shook his head. "No, I imagine she won't."

"We want you to assist with the interrogation." Ross stared at him through smudged glasses, as if he expected Indy to refuse.

"If you say so, general. But…"

"Why you?"

Indy nodded silently, crossing his arms.

"Well, simply put, you are the only one of us who knows her personally. She has expressed admiration for your work. You have a rapport."

Jones snorted at this, slapping his palms on the desk. Spalko had admired his reputation enough to kidnap him for the trip to Akator, luring him in by using his family as bait. He would hardly say they had a rapport. Still, he was eager to get back in the good graces of the Bureau. This whole affair had stained his reputation and nearly cost him his career at Marshall College. He supposed it would be wise to cooperate, if only to curry favor with Ross.

"Just tell me what I need to do."

* * *

 **A/N: Hello, reader! I'm so happy to be writing my favorite couple again. Let me know what you think.**


	2. No One Knows Where the Ladder Goes

The cell was small and chilly, with a single lightbulb for illumination. In one corner were a sink and toilet, both thoroughly bolted down. A wool blanket, haphazardly folded, was sitting by the door. Through the barred window embedded into the door, Spalko watched the guard walk his beat, footsteps echoing through the hallway. He passed by her cell approximately every three minutes and thirty-seven seconds. She filed this information away as potentially useful, then leaned back against the wall, letting her eyes fall shut. Her broken arm throbbed, and her fingertips were raw and stinging where the nails had been removed. Her nose was broken, and she felt the trickle of drying blood down her chin.

Suddenly, she noticed that the footsteps in the hall had gone silent. Craning her neck, she watched two figures make their way towards her cell. One was the guard, of course, but the other…

"The prisoner will stand." The voice of the guard was muffled by the door, and she heard the faint jingle of keys in the lock. Shakily, she got to her feet and squared her shoulders. Her mouth was set in a determined scowl.

"Have you not troubled me enough?" She called out bitingly.

The door swung open. The guard stepped in, followed by a troublingly familiar figure.

"Hello, Colonel-Doctor." Jones tipped his hat, and Spalko wasn't sure if it was a gesture of respect or mockery. She flinched under his gaze.

"Dr. Jones. Such a surprise to see that you have survived also."

He grinned, but there was no warmth behind it. Then his expression fell. "Hey, what happened to your fingers?"

"Your countryman, Marino." Spalko lifted her fingers so he could get a good look at her torn and bloodied nails. To her surprise, a look of genuine horror and pity crossed Jones' face. Good – perhaps she could use this to her benefit.

Jones waved to the guard, then pointed to the hallway. "A word, please?"

Spalko watched as they disappeared through the doorway, and the heavy steel door slammed shut.

* * *

Jones cradled his head in his palms, leaning in the shadows of the passageway. Beside him, the young guard was staring, hands in his pockets.

"What's the problem, sir? Should I go find General Ross?"

"Please do."

The man scurried off, and Indy heard him clatter up the steps. Indy prided himself on being thick-skinned – two tours in World War II had taught him that much – but he was troubled by what he had seen in the cell. Spalko had looked terrible, gaunt and weak, with blood on her face and fingers ripped to shreds. He had little love for Spalko; she was cruel and arrogant, and her deranged pursuit of Akator's treasures had put his family in danger. Still, Jones believed that what distinguished his countrymen from the Soviets was moral character. He'd been on the receiving end of torture a few times himself, and he felt a twinge of empathy for his former enemy.

Perhaps a talk with Ross would clear things up. The general was a busy man, and it was simply not possible for him to closely supervise everything that went on in the prison. Nodding to himself, Jones started down the passageway, squinting in the dim light. He met Ross at the stairs.

"Indy, is something the matter?" Ross looked slightly rumpled, and his suit coat was tucked over one arm. He flashed a tired smile.

"Yes, general. Who has been conducting Spalko's interrogation?"

"Agent Robert Marino. He was transferred here from Cartagena – the field office recommended him highly."

"He tortured her." Indy crossed his arms and stared at Ross, waiting for his reaction.

"Yes, he told me. This matter must be resolved quickly, and she wasn't responding to our questions."

"You're kidding me..." Indy scowled in disgust and took a few steps back. Ross clapped a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off.

"We have to be practical, Indy. You waste your pity on her."

"I won't be part of this."

"Ah, but you will. Your trouble with the Bureau will only go away if you help us."

With a pang, Jones imagined Marion and Mutt waiting for him back in Connecticut. More than anything, he wanted to get back to them. If he didn't play ball, the investigation would go on forever, and Indy would be stuck in some cramped cell for months, trying to convince the Bureau that he had no foreign allegiances. He might lose his tenure, and Marshall College would need to find a new archeology instructor. His life would be in tatters.

Ross noticed his hesitation. "All you need to do is ask her questions. Marino will handle the more rigorous interrogations."

Indy sighed in defeat, already feeling disgusted with himself. Fixing Marion in his mind's eye, he opened his mouth: "Fine. Damn you all."

Ross shrugged off his outburst and started back up the stairs. "Excellent."

* * *

"What do you want?" Spalko leaned back in her chair, pale eyes fixed on his face. She had wiped the blood from her chin, and her expression was cold and defiant.

Indy matched her posture, propping his notebook on his knee. Taking a pencil from his pocket, he tapped it absently on the tabletop. The interrogation room was small and bare, and the walls offered no distraction from his task. The guard stood beside the door, stone-faced. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the woman.

"Have you had anything to eat?" He hoped his offer would start them off on the right foot. Ross had shared the questions with him, but he thought better of beginning the interrogation immediately.

Spalko shrugged noncommittally, letting her gaze wander. Indy stood up and waved to the guard.

"Captain Blaine, will you fetch food for the prisoner?"

The young man snapped to attention, eyes nervous. "Sir, General Ross said-"

"-This is my interrogation," Jones said firmly. "Don't worry about Ross."

With a hesitant nod, the guard disappeared. Jones returned to his seat. Spalko still seemed uncooperative and surly, as if the prospect of food meant nothing to her. Despite the cell and handcuffs, she acted as if she were still in command.

"Now – Ross told me that you refused to cooperate."

"I have nothing to say to the Americans."

"We'll start with something simple, then. How did you survive the collapse of the temple?" He supposed it made a good enough opening to the interrogation, but Indy was genuinely curious about the answer. He and Marion had watched the temple collapse into the lake, sending up clouds of dust and rock fragments. Between drowning and being crushed to death, remaining in the temple was hazardous indeed.

"I…don't recall." Something darkened in her gaze.

"Come on, Dr. Spalko."

"I tell you the truth. I woke up under the rubble and your countrymen found me a few hours later. I suppose I was lucky." She chuckled darkly, not missing the irony in her statement.

"Fair enough. I'll settle for the last thing you remember."

She paused for a moment, and Indy wondered if she was going to stop cooperating. Then:

"…The platform began to rotate," she said softly. "I saw you go through the door, along with Mary Williams and her son. I heard my men screaming behind me…"

"…And then?"

"I awoke under the rubble. It was very dark and dusty."

Indy nodded and made a mark in his notebook. Something in him was inclined to believe the Soviet agent. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and the guard entered.

"As you requested, sir." He placed a plate of food on the table before them and returned to his post by the door.

Indy nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to Spalko. He pushed the plate towards her. "Here. No conditions."

She gave him an evaluative glance. Then, taking a fingerful of the mash, she placed it carefully on her tongue. Jones watched her with confusion.

"What, you think I'm going to poison you?"

"It's possible, no?"

"Suit yourself." Indy crossed his arms and looked at her. "Although I swear it isn't poisoned."

"Allow me to wait. If I'm not convulsing on the floor presently, I will believe you."

In spite of himself, Indy chuckled. He has forgotten what a strange character Spalko was. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then she nodded her head slightly and picked up the fork.

While she ate, Jones flipped through the dossier provided by Ross. It was the same one he had seen in Nevada a few weeks before, with data sheets and a blurry polaroid of Spalko in a Soviet army uniform. Turning over the photograph, he noticed a message scrawled on the back.

 _Subject #240924671. Spalko, Irina Matveyevna. Second World War ca. 1944._

Spalko pushed the plate away, interrupting his thoughts. "Interesting reading, Dr. Jones?"

He made a noncommittal noise and closed the cover. "Where were we?"

"Poisoning."

He pursed his lips. "Yes. Now, let's go back to when the temple collapsed."

* * *

Pulling the blanket tightly around her shoulders, Irina leaned back against the cell wall. Near the door, a spider scuttled from shadow to shadow, and she watched absently as it disappeared into the darkness. The only illumination came from the crack below the door, thin beams of light that made a grid pattern on the floor. Spalko knew she should try to sleep; Marino made a habit of summoning her for questioning in the dead of night, hoping to capitalize on her grogginess. Even now, she could hear the tap of footsteps in the corridor beyond.

Closing her eyes, she tried to block out the distractions. Her broken arm still ached, and there were new burns along her back and shoulders that made moving uncomfortable. She was nowhere near to breaking, but fear was a constant, heavy presence. Every jangle of a lock, every heavy footstep outside of her cell squeezed her chest with anxiety. Her superiors would be waiting back on Moscow, ignorant of what had befallen her. Perhaps they would find the bodies of her men at Akator and assume she was dead. There was also the problem of the men who had been captured – if they were still alive. The Americans could torture them, but they knew nothing.

It had been three days since Spalko's first interrogation with Jones, and he had asked her nothing of importance. The first day, he had asked her to recount the collapse of the temple and her rescue from the rubble. The next, he had questioned her about her theories related to the thirteen skeletons they had found in the throne room. She had been happy enough to discuss it with him, and she noted with interest his apparent pity for her. He had offered her food each time, and he had even called a medic to set her arm. Spalko didn't enjoy being the subject of pity, but she saw the practicality of accepting these gestures.

Marino, on the other hand, was losing patience with her. She responded to his questions with arrogance and bore up under the beatings with stoic silence. Sometimes Ross was present, hovering in the back of the room with a clipboard and pen. At other times, it was only Marino and his assistants. Several times, Marino had threatened to harm her men if she didn't cooperate, but the threat meant nothing. Spalko knew they would be executed with or without her cooperation. She dreaded informing their families of what had transpired, but it couldn't be helped.

Irina was confident in her ability to escape. She had memorized the schedule of the guards, mapped the layout of the prison in her mind, and carefully studied the locking mechanism on her cell door. When she saw an opportunity, she would take it. Once free, she planned to contact her supervisor and arrange for extraction.

A clicking noise startled her from her thoughts. Her cell door swung open, and a thin-faced guard appeared. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his pale hair was tousled.

"The prisoner will stand." His tone was flat, and he put a hand on the pistol that hung from his utility belt.

Folding her blanket, Spalko stood up slowly. There was no point in struggling, but she couldn't resist remarking, "Do you not know how late it is?"

He scowled. "Marino has ordered you to the interrogation room. Comply."

She shrugged, pushing down the dread that rose inside her. "As you wish."

* * *

 **A/N: Feel free to leave a review!**


	3. Leverage

Stepping into the dark room, Indy hung his hat on a peg near the door and flipped on the lights. Ross had offered him a place to stay for the duration of his assignment, and Indy had accepted. The room, located in a hotel across the road from the compound, was barely furnished and yellowed with cigarette smoke. Strips of flypaper hung from the ceiling, and the single cot was draped in a mosquito net. With a sigh, he shoved the net aside and sat down, unlacing his boots.

For the past week, Ross had kept him busy with what seemed to be mundane tasks: writing endless incident reports about what occurred at Akator, analyzing photographs and relics pulled from the rubble, and interrogating Spalko. She still refused to cooperate, and they spent most of the time sitting in silence. He had quickly discerned that she was receiving no medical care and no food, beyond what he requested during their sessions. Twice, he had tried to broach the subject with Ross, and twice he had been chastised for interfering. This was Marino's investigation, after all, and if Jones didn't approve of his methods, it was because he didn't understand the stakes.

 _The stakes._ Indy pinched his brow and stared up at the ceiling, letting the phrase hang in his mind. He understood that Spalko had knowledge of secret Soviet weapons development, and he saw the danger in neglecting to follow this lead. But if his experience in military intelligence had taught him anything, it was that torture produced unreliable information. Marino was a fool for not recognizing this.

Guilt over his continued involvement had kept Indy up the past few nights. He found the operation repugnant, and yet he saw no way out. If he quit abruptly, Ross might stop shielding him from the Bureau, and the ensuing investigation could take months. Indy had no interest in spending the next year in a dank Peruvian prison cell, waiting for Marino and his associates to pick through his affairs with a fine-toothed comb. More, he worried about the impact an investigation would have on Marion and her son. Would they believe he had abandoned them again? If the inquiry resulted in Jones being blacklisted, he would never work again, and his career would be in tatters. Would Marion still commit to him, knowing that he had nothing to offer?

His shoulders slumped in defeat, and he blinked hard, trying to dislodge the headache building behind his eyes. He had to admit, Ross was clever, and yet he hated his old friend. Indy kicked off his boots and reclined on the cot, not bothering to turn off the lights. Above his head, a mosquito was caught in the net, buzzing furiously. Blocking out the sound, Indy closed his eyes and fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

As soon as Spalko stepped into the interrogation room, she knew something was different. Her men were lined up against the wall, eyes downcast and wrists and ankles cuffed. At the far side of the room, Marino paced restlessly, thick glasses catching the light. His lips were pursed, and he only briefly glanced up when the guard pushed her inside.

"Good morning, Dr. Spalko. Please sit."

With a dismissive sniff, she made her way to the table and sat. Marino snapped the cuffs to her ankles, but he had a distracted air.

"Why are my soldiers here?" She demanded, with more authority than she felt. The air was chilly, but she shivered with foreboding as much as with cold.

"Ah, yes. Today, we will finally make progress."

"What do you mean?"

Marino snapped around, landing a fist on the tabletop. "I will ask the questions!"

She shrank back, watching her soldiers exchange a frightened glance. They did not dare to look at her.

Marino continued. "…and we shall start with a simple one. What is the name of your direct superior?"

"I will not answer."

"Fine." He motioned to the guard at the door, who crossed the room to where her men stood. With a sinking feeling, she realized what game Marino intended to play. The guard grabbed the shortest man by the shoulders and dragged him forward. He was Dimitry Verenich, a young gunner and munitions expert from Siberia. His dark hair was long and unkempt, and his eyes flashed with terror. Still, she knew that he wouldn't break. All her soldiers had been personally chosen, and she trusted their loyalty.

"I see what you are doing, Marino. You can kill them in front of me, but I will not break. Neither will they."

A half grin appeared on Marino's sallow face. "I'd like to test that theory," he said quietly, crossing his arms. The guard stepped forward, drawing his gun.

* * *

As Indy made his way down the hall, he heard the unmistakable crack of a gunshot. He picked up his pace, surprised and rattled, and ducked into Ross' office.

"General?"

The older man barely looked up, tapping his pen against the ledger before him. "Indy. Come in."

"Did you hear that gunshot? What's going on?"

Ross gestured for him to sit. A cup of tea sat untouched near his elbow. "I granted Marino permission to execute the Soviet soldiers in our custody."

Indy squinted, rolling the words over in his head. He certainly understood the sentiment, but the men were technically prisoners of war, despite the havoc they'd wreaked in Nevada and at Akator. There had to be a process for administering this sentence.

Ross seemed to notice his hesitation. "Marino requested this specifically."

"Why?"

"Ask him." Ross finally put down his pen and looked up, graying eyebrows knitted together. Indy sensed his irritation at being interrupted. "But first, I need you to examine some photographs of relics we found near the temple site. My anthropologists are having some difficulty dating them."

Indy felt a spark of interest, and he nodded eagerly. "I trust your people took detailed notes about the dimensions of the relics and the site at which they were found-?

"—Of course." Ross pushed an envelope of photographs and jumbled papers across the desk. "You can work in the office across the hall."

* * *

A few hours later, the sound of a door slamming interrupted Indy's thoughts. Sitting in the empty office, he had the photographs arrayed beside a map of the Amazon basin, with pins representing each site. He had copied the relevant notes onto the back of each photograph, and he used a magnifying glass to scrutinize the details of each find. Straightening up, he felt a sharp pain in his lower back, and his legs were numb and stiff. A break would do him good, and he had meant to ask Marino about the gunshots. Standing up, he snatched his jacket off the back of the chair and started towards the cell block.

The passageway outside of the cells was silent, and Marino was nowhere to be found. Still, a faint light spilled from under the door to the interrogation room, and a guard was stationed beside it. Jones greeted the man and motioned for him to open the door.

Stepping inside, Jones was surprised to see that Marino was gone. Only Spalko remained, slumped forward in her seat, eyes wide and glazed. Near the back wall were the bodies of the soldiers, shrouded neatly in sheets. Behind him, the guard hovered in the doorway, hands hovering near his weapon.

"Marino isn't here, Dr. Jones."

"I see that. Did he have these men executed?"

"Yes. He tried to use them as leverage, but the prisoner would rather see her soldiers die than cooperate."

"Why has no one come to collect the bodies?"

The man stared blankly. "Marino didn't say-"

"—Well, get someone down here at once." He glanced at Spalko, and another thought occurred to him. "Also, send for the medic."

The guard nodded and disappeared. Jones approached the table.

"Spalko?"

The Soviet agent lifted her head slightly, but she didn't say a word. Her face was scuffed and bruised, and her expression was defeated. There was something heavy in her eyes, and Indy wondered if she felt personally guilty for the deaths of her men. He couldn't imagine her feeling so human an emotion as guilt. Reaching out, he gently shook her shoulder.

"Are you hurt? I called for the medic."

"No more than usual." She spat the words, shrugging off his hand. "And my men are beyond help, as you see."

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "They were prepared to die for the Soviet Union. As am I."

Jones stared at her for a long moment, searching for a response. She was the first to break the silence.

"Why are you involved in this? What leverage does Ross have over you?"

Her tone was accusative, but he saw in her eyes that she genuinely wanted an answer. Indy glanced over his shoulder. The guard was still away.

"My family." Indy didn't know why he answered; he neither liked nor trusted Spalko. And yet, sitting in the quiet cell with the bodies of her men, he felt like he owed Spalko an answer.

She considered his words, and her eyes softened a bit. "Ah, Mary Williams and her son. The boy is yours, yes?"

"Yes."

The lock jingled, and the guard stepped back into the cell, trailed by the medic. Indy snapped to attention and waved the medic over.

"The prisoner is injured."

The medic, a skinny man with wire-frame glasses, approached the table. He nodded respectfully towards Jones. There was a commotion by the door as a third person entered. Jones recognized Marino's stilted gait. The man wore lifts in one shoe, and whenever he brought down that foot, there was a noticeable clatter. Marino barely acknowledged the medic, turning his eyes to Indy.

"You wanted to see me, Dr. Jones?"

"Yes, I did." Standing up, Indy crossed his arms over his chest. "Why did you execute the other prisoners?"

"Leverage," Marino said calmly, as if it were obvious. "Spalko was not forthcoming, and I needed to up the ante."

"Seems like a waste of human life, doesn't it?"

Marino glowered. "I will conduct my interrogations as I please."

Indy returned his glare. "As will I-"

"—Actually, Jones, I have been disappointed with the results of your sessions. You will need to make your questioning more rigorous."

"Meaning?"

"The prisoner won't cooperate unless there is the threat of real harm. I will assign one of my men to assist you."

"You can't be serious."

"Ross already authorized it." His lips curled into the ghost of a smile. "Remember that you have family waiting back home. You wouldn't want to disappoint them."

Indy refused to look at Marino. His eyes blurred red, and he crossed to the door, shoving past the guard. Marino, the bastard, had taken away the last illusion of choice. He would have to comply with his orders, no matter how twisted, in order to have a chance at going home. He was a prisoner as much as Spalko was. Slamming the door behind him, he clattered up the stairs, seething with powerless rage.

* * *

Spalko found herself upstairs, in a cramped room with tarpapered windows. A large desk occupied most of the space, strewn with books and newspapers. The air was thick and hot, and she could hear the tap of rain on the window. Being this close to the outside was maddening; she could only think of breaking free from her shackles, shattering the window, and slipping into the crowded streets of Iquitos. And yet, her wrists and ankles were cuffed firmly to the chair, and her legs were sore and weak from disuse. Better to wait until a more opportune moment.

She had been summoned by Ross, who she gathered was in command of this operation. She had been waiting for several minutes, alone in the office, with a guard waiting just outside the door. Trying to pass the time, she craned her neck forward, attempting to read the newspaper on the desk. She glimpsed a headline, in Spanish:

 **[Three Tourists Killed in Airplane Crash]**

Casually interested, she scanned the rest of the page.

 **[An American mother and son were killed after their flight crashed in the Paramillo Massif on Sunday. The bodies of Mary Williams and her son, Henry Williams, have not been recovered. A British citizen, Harold Oxley, 65, was also killed. The pilot, Roberto Alvarez Cruz, was the sole survivor of the tragedy.]**

Her Spanish was poor, and Spalko had to translate word-by-word. There had been a plane crash, and Mary Williams, her son, and Harold Oxley had all perished. The paper was dated nearly a week ago, but Jones didn't seem to be aware that the others were dead. It was an interesting piece of information, and one she filed away for future use. She had a feeling that this discovery would afford her an important advantage, and Spalko had learned long ago to trust her hunches.

She heard the faint sound of voices and snapped her gaze away from the paper, smoothing her expression. Leaving the newspaper in plain view had been careless, and Ross rarely made such sloppy mistakes. He was a cunning adversary, and she was pleased to have finally outmaneuvered him. Finally, she had the key to her escape.


	4. The Spiderweb

Indy dashed up the stairs to the second floor, snatching his room key from his pocket. Reaching his hotel room, he quickly fitted the key into the rusted lock and entered. The space was as he had left it, camp bed neatly made, his half-unpacked suitcase lying on the floor. The shuttered windows let in dusty bars of light. Taking a deep breath, Indy knelt and began shoving clothing into his suitcase.

No reunion with Marion was worth selling his soul to Ross and Marino. He felt like an insect in a spider web, wrapped in invisible silk, the spider weaving ever closer. If he acquiesced to Marino, he would have to assist in the interrogation in a more substantive way. He would have to torture Spalko; although Marino hadn't said as much, Indy knew what was meant by "rigorous." He didn't want to be party to that, and he knew it would only be the beginning. Ross and Marino would continue to dangle the possibility of freedom over his head, and he would continue to cooperate. If he fled, his life would be his own. He could go to Leipzig or Shanghai; he had friends in both cities, and Marion and Mutt could come to join him. Yes, he would lose his position at Marshall College, but he had a feeling that that was inevitable.

With this fuzzy plan in his mind, Indy wiped his brow and retrieved the last few items from his end table. As he zipped his suitcase, he heard a ringing from the phone on the opposite wall. His stomach dropped.

"It's Jones," he said quietly, pressing the receiver to his cheek.

"This is Ross. Marino needs your assistance. It won't take more than a few hours."

Jones could wait that long to leave; a few hours would make no difference. Gritting his teeth, he nodded.

"Heading over now, sir." Indy had had only a few hours to himself since arriving in Iquitos, and he hoped that Ross would mistake his agitated state for exhaustion.

"Good. Meet Marino in the cell block."

* * *

Spalko was surprised when the cell door clanged open, and Jones walked in. He seemed agitated, brow tightly furrowed, brown hat clutched in his fist. Marino pushed back his chair and stood up, waving Jones over.

"Ah. You're finally here."

Jones scowled and said nothing.

"We are getting nowhere. I want you to take over."

"Fine." Jones sounded disgruntled, but he walked to the table and sat.

"Two guards are stationed outside the door. Summon them if you need assistance."

"I know the drill, Agent Marino."

Spalko listened to Marino shut the door behind him, leaning back in her chair. The agent had slammed her face into the tabletop, and her nose was swollen and painful. She hadn't been permitted to sleep in days, and exhaustion was beginning to wear at her. Her body felt light and cold, and Jones' voice sounded far away.

"Spalko?"

She straightened her posture, letting her lips curl into a scowl.

"Are you all right? Should I get the medic?"

"No. Let us begin." There was no sense in delaying the inevitable; Irina had overheard the conversation between Jones and Marino, and she knew that his kindness would soon run out. She didn't blame Jones for following orders, but his spinelessness rankled her a little. He clearly hated Marino, but he was all too willing to obey. A thought drifted into her mind, bringing her instantly to attention. She knew that Marino was using Mary Williams and the boy as leverage. Therefore, it followed that Jones did not know what had befallen the two.

Spalko cleared her throat and stared at Jones. "Is this room under surveillance?"

His tone betrayed his surprise. "Not as far as I know…"

"Good. Now, I know that you are complying for the sake of Mary Williams and her son-"

"-Hmm." He nodded slightly.

"I have information that may interest you. Have you kept up with the news since arriving in Iquitos?"

"No." He squinted at her. "What are you playing at?"

"Williams and the boy are dead."

He let out an incredulous laugh. "I don't think so. I saw them off myself – they took a flight back to Connecticut."

"The airplane crashed. There was a newspaper on Ross' desk. I saw the headline."

He laughed again, but the sound was brittle. Going to the door, he called for the guard.

"I need every newspaper from the past week. Bring them as soon as possible."

The guard nodded and disappeared. Spalko watched with interest as he returned to the table, lacing and unlacing his fingers over and over. They sat in silence until the man returned.

"Here you are, sir." The guard dropped a stack of newsprint on the table, smiling slightly. "You are lucky that no one has collected trash from the common room in more than a week."

Jones barely nodded, thumbing through the stack. The guard scowled and departed.

Spalko watched him scan page after page, until he found the headline that she had glimpsed the day before. He read quickly, and she watched as his expression fell. Under the deep tan, his skin was grey.

"How can this be?" He murmured, reading the page again. Spalko sat quietly, beginning to grow uncomfortable. Just as she prepared to interrupt, he slammed a fist against the table and stood. Taking a fistful of newsprint, he flung it towards the wall. The paper drifted to the ground, and he tracked it quietly, eyes burning with rage and grief.

"Why didn't Ross tell me?"

"He is not your friend," Spalko said baldly, with a shrug. "He didn't want to lose his grip on you."

"You're right." The anger still shone in his eyes, but his voice was dead.

"…But now that he has lost his leverage, you can leave."

Jones nodded slowly, forehead creased. She could see that he was thinking very hard about something, and this piqued her interest.

"Jones?"

"Ross betrayed me."

"Yes."

His lips turned up in the ghost of a smile. "I'm going to hit him where it hurts, take something that is of crucial importance to him."

His tone was quiet, conspiratorial. "And that is?" she questioned.

"Spalko, I want to help you escape."

* * *

Jones found himself leaning on the windowsill of his hotel room, nursing a glass of Peruvian brandy. The beginnings of a headache had taken root behind his eyes, and he blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. His thoughts were a jumble of burning planes and looming mountains, and he swore he could smell the bite of smoke in the air. Below, the street was nearly empty, and a flock of birds had settled on the empty market stall. In the distance, he could see the shaded drive leading to the prison.

Indy didn't know what had possessed him to offer to help Spalko. Certainly, it would be therapeutic to defy Ross so openly. Imagining his face when he realized they were gone brought a perverse sort of joy, and he smiled in spite of himself. But the repercussions of helping a known Soviet operative escape US custody would be dire. Not only would he lose his teaching position and career, he could also be in legal trouble.

Nothing, however, would prevent him from following his previous plan and escaping to Leipzig. It would be easy enough to trek through the jungle until he reached Lima, then charter a plane to Germany. Having Spalko with him would be a complicator, but the damage to Ross and his project was worth the trouble. Indy had done a fair bit of traveling in the jungle, and he knew he would need mosquito nets, a water filter, and nonperishable food. He already had weapons, matches, and a compass. He estimated that it would take them six weeks to make the journey, shorter if they found transportation.

Freeing Spalko would be more difficult. The complex was heavily guarded, and there was only one set of stairs connecting the cell block with the ground level. He would need to get Spalko to the ground floor if the plan was going to work. He supposed he could manufacture a distraction and get the guards to leave them alone. He could bring Spalko to Ross' office on some pretext, then escape through the window. His mind flashed to the array of photographs arranged in the workroom opposite the office. He had taken great care to arrange each documented artifact chronologically, and he was loathe to disturb them. Perhaps he could request Spalko's help in dating an artifact and request that Ross allow her to visit his workroom. There was a large window at the back of the room, and below was an alley, perfect for slipping away undetected.

Thus decided, Indy drained the rest of his brandy and set the cup on the floor. The sun was beginning to set, and he felt the first prick of a mosquito bit on his arm. Standing up, he slammed the window shut and stretched, feeling a little better. Marion's death was a gaping wound, but he could function if he kept himself distracted. He hoped that breaking a foreign operative out of prison would be distraction enough.

* * *

Spalko leaned heavily against the wall of her cell, picking at a loose thread on her blanket. She felt cold and exhausted, and her ribs ached every time she took a breath. Marino was becoming frustrated with her defiance, and whatever compassion he had initially held for her was gone. The previous session had been particularly punishing, and her legs were covered with blistering burns. Still, she was no closer to breaking than when she had arrived. She was ardently, unshakably loyal to the Soviet Union, and even death was preferable to treason.

The possibility of escape filled her with a cautious hope. Jones had spoken out of strong emotion, and she didn't know if he would follow through on his offer. Furthermore, she didn't know why he had offered to help her. There was still bad blood between them, and his interests were certainly not aligned with hers. She certainly respected his reputation, but she didn't particularly like Jones, and she assumed he felt the same way towards her. They were at opposite sides of an interminable war, and she saw no future for them as allies.

Her thoughts in turmoil, Spalko closed her eyes. It would be prudent to rest while she had the opportunity. Her mind would be clearer in the morning, and she could prepare herself for her next meeting with Jones. Escaping with his help would be much easier than attempting it alone, but much could still go wrong. She would need to be alert and ready to act if she wanted success. With this thought in her mind, she silenced her thoughts and fell asleep.


	5. You Can't Carry It with You

By the next morning, Indy was ready. He had made a discreet trip to the local market for supplies, stashing them in a knapsack at the end of the alley he'd glimpsed the day before. Planning the escape had kept him up most of the night, and his eyes burned with exhaustion. He could think of no more elegant plan than simply distracting the guard and slipping out the office window. He anticipated that they would need to fight; Ross would give chase, and he wouldn't let them go easily. For this, Indy carried two small pistols tucked in his boots. A few extra rounds were tucked in the inner pocket of his jacket.

Taking a last glance around his hotel room, Indy flipped off the lights. The stairwell was empty and cold, the street just beginning to fill with the usual mix of pedestrians and well-worn flatbed trucks. The cobblestones caught the early morning sunlight. Crossing the street quickly, Indy made his way towards the prison. His chest was tight and heavy, but he told himself not to think of Marion until the escape was complete.

When he reached the prison, he headed straight to Ross' office. He raised his fist to knock, and the door opened under his hand. Ross stood before him, dressed smartly in a collared shirt and slacks. A file was tucked under his arm.

"Indy, you're early."

He nodded, hoping that his unease didn't show. "I'm having trouble identifying one of the photographs from Akator. Do you have additional field notes?"

As expected, Ross shook his head. "I'm sorry. My men are not archeologists. They don't always know what's important."

"Fair enough," Indy said quietly. "Say…"

"What is it?"

"…Can I have Spalko take a look? She was at Akator as well."

Ross furrowed his brow and nodded. "I suppose."

With what he hoped was a reassuring nod, Indy stepped around Ross and headed for the cell block. The passageway was empty and quiet, and he could hear the distant drip of water. He felt the cold metal of the hidden pistols against his ankles. Despite himself, he felt a spark of excitement in his chest.

When he reached the cell, Marino was standing outside, conversing quietly with the guard. A lit cigarette was pinched between his fingers. Coughing a little, Jones gave him a nod.

"Morning, Marino."

"What brings you here?" There was disdain in the other man's voice.

"I need to speak to the prisoner. Ross and I need her help in identifying some photographs from Akator."

Marino nodded dismissively and used his free hand to push his glasses onto his nose. Indy smiled tightly and entered the cell.

* * *

Spalko awoke to the sound of footfalls outside her cell. It was still early, and she caught a glimpse of the night shift guard through the barred window. Sitting up, she grimaced at the stiffness in her back. The burns on her legs still stung fiercely, and her ribs hurt each time she took a breath. When Jones saw her battered state, he might choose to leave her behind. She couldn't imagine trekking through the jungle for a few weeks, and she knew she'd be a liability to Jones. If she were in his position, she knew what choice she'd make.

Still, escaping alone would be more difficult, and she found herself hoping that Jones would keep to their plan. She knew he had offered to help because he wanted to take something from Ross and Marino, and she was a key component of their investigation. A clanging in the hall drew her attention back to the present, and she shrugged off her blanket, folding it neatly. She straightened her rumpled clothes and ran her fingers through her hair, now matted and caked with blood. Finally, she faced the door, twisting her lips into a scowl.

"Hello?" The door swung open, and Jones appeared. He held his fedora in his hands, and a day's growth of stubble adorned his chin. His eyes flickered over her, and she could see the wheels turning in his head.

"Jones. I have been waiting."

He brushed her words aside. "Good morning, Dr. Spalko. I need you to help me identify some artifacts from Akator."

She nodded shortly, eyes alight with interest. Getting to her feet, she tried to hide her wince. He led her up the stairs, and the guard trailed them, truncheon at the ready. She had spent little time on the ground floor, and she glanced around carefully, taking in details. Down the long hallway were two doors and beyond that, a vestibule. A single soldier stood guard at the entrance. They walked a short distance, and then Jones steered her through one of the doors.

"Please sit," he said, pointing to the card table and chair at the center of the room. "I can't identify numbers 139 to 183. The field notes are written on the back of each photograph."

She sat, all the while taking in the spartan furnishings of the office. A single bookcase stood opposite the window, stacked with dusty folders. A handful of photographs were arrayed on the table before her, pinned neatly in sequence. Several caught her interest, and she picked up a polaroid of a small wooden statue, with the number **149** scribbled on the back. As she browsed, Jones spoke to the guard.

"Handcuffs, please?"

She hardly paid attention as he snapped one side of the cuffs to the leg of the table. With one hand, he took her wrist, and his fingers were calloused and cold. With the other, he fiddled with the lock.

"I think there's something wrong with the locking mechanism. Could you go get another set of cuffs from Marino?"

Finally, the exchange caught Spalko's attention. Jones was up to something, and she guessed that it had to do with the escape. She kept her eyes on the photograph, listening intently.

"Let me try…" The guard stepped forward, but Indy waved him away.

"I'd rather not risk using faulty cuffs."

With a huff of annoyance, the guard gave in. Spalko waited until she heard his retreating footfalls, and then she looked up.

"What are you doing?"

"We're going to break the window and climb down to the alley," he whispered, extracting a pistol from his boot and handing it to Spalko.

She nodded briskly and stowed the weapon in the pocket of her fatigue pants, trying to still the shaking of her hands. The knowledge that this was the moment of their escape buzzed uneasily in her mind.

As soon as she stood, Jones picked up the chair and bashed it into the window. The shattering of the glass was deafening, and shards flew through the air, cutting her face and hands. She heard the wail of an alarm, and Jones leapt up on the windowpane, kicking away the remaining glass. She stepped up behind him, staring down into the alley.

The drop was nearly two stories, and the alley was paved in brick. Nevertheless, Jones dropped nimbly to the ground, rolling to break his fall. Taking a deep breath, she followed, bending her knees as she hit the ground. Her joints protested, but she seemed intact, and so Irina retrieved the gun from her pocket and asked:

"What now?"

The alarm continued to wail above their heads, and she heard shouting in the distance. Somewhere near the front of the prison, an engine grumbled to life.

"Run. If anyone follows us, start shooting."

They dashed towards the end of the alley, and Spalko kept watch over her shoulder, weapon in hand. At the end of the alley, Jones darted into the shadows and retrieved a large rucksack. She covered him, waiting anxiously for one of Ross' men to appear.

Just as Jones returned to her side, she glimpsed the flash of a barrel near the window. She barked for Jones to keep moving and sent off a few warning shots down the alley. The soldier returned fire, and she ducked as a bullet hit the brick above her head, sending bits of rock falling. Firing with one hand, she followed Jones into the street, where he dashed for an idling truck parked across the way.

"Get in!"

She fell against the passenger side door, fumbling for the handle. She hardly had time to climb onto the seat before Jones took off, careening wildly down the road. Leaning out the window, she saw a squad of soldiers appear at the mouth of the alleyway. She opened fire for good measure, and they ducked.

They were already near the edge of the city, and Jones took a winding path through the side streets and alleyways, until they had reached the edge of the jungle. Behind them was the distant hum of traffic, and they both knew that Ross wouldn't be far behind. Spalko used the momentary calm to reload her handgun, and Jones slowed down, turning onto an unpaved logging road.

"We'll go as far as we can, then abandon the truck," he said decisively.

* * *

After the truck ran out of gas, Indy and Spalko walked until the sun began to set. It was oppressively hot under the canopy of trees, and mosquitos gnawed at his arms and face. The ground was muddy, and they kept up a slow pace, pushing through the underbrush. Just as the shadows began to deepen, Indy spotted the crumbling remains of a wall ahead. The jungle was dotted with structures such as these, and they offered some protection from the elements. Silently, he jogged towards the wall and set his pack down. He waved Spalko over.

"Stop here?"

She nodded, dropping at his side. In the dim light, her face was grey and pinched, and her eyes were glazed with exhaustion. She was careful to show no indication of pain, but Jones doubted she could continue walking through the night. Her fractured arm hung in its makeshift sling, and her legs were swollen and bruised. Her arms, like his, were pocked with insect bites.

Silently, Indy opened the knapsack and took stock of their supplies. He had taken care to refill their canteen, and there was enough food to last a month or so. A vial of quinine, a roll of bandages, bullets, a rope, a compass, matches, and a knife rounded out their supply. Digging out an MRE bar, he snapped it in half.

"Food?"

Spalko shook her head, and Indy bit into the bar, wincing at the sawdust taste. Making quick work of the food, he stood up to gather firewood. Finding dry twigs was more difficult than he had anticipated, and by the time he'd found enough, Spalko had already dug a small depression a few feet from the wall. Dropping the kindling inside, he struck a match, then added a few larger branches.

They sat in silence, watching the flames cast wide, flickering shadows over the ground. In the distance, he heard the call of an unfamiliar bird and the trickle of running water. Farther away, there was the growl of a jaguar.

Spalko glanced at him. "Shall we take watches?"

He nodded quickly, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He was apprehensive about trusting Spalko to watch his back, and there was nothing to prevent her from making off with their supplies and leaving him to the mercies of the wilderness. And yet, the fact that she was injured would compel her to stay, if nothing else.

She smiled thinly. "I am not going to kill you in your sleep, Dr. Jones. After all, you helped me escape."

"Are you trying to thank me?"

She shrugged. "I assume you only assisted me because your interests align with mine."

She was right, and he returned her smile grudgingly. "I'll take first watch. Good night, Dr. Spalko."

"Good night."

She let her head fall back against the ruined wall and closed her eyes. Indy blinked wearily at the fire, lacing and unlacing his hands. The last time he'd been forced to survive in the Amazon, he'd nearly died of Typhus. This time, he was better prepared, but having an additional person along was a complicating factor. But as long as he was preoccupied with staying alive, he didn't have to think about Marion. Marion, who was dead in the Andes, along with their son.

Pushing the thought away, Indy growled, and tossed a twig into the fire.


	6. Disappointment

Spalko placed her feet carefully on the muddy ground, pushing branches aside as she walked. Jones followed behind her, carrying the knapsack of supplies. The day was already sweltering, and the canopy above them shimmered in the heat. Morning sunlight sifted through the leaves, bathing the forest in a dim green glow. Her jacket was tied around her waist, and she carried her pistol in her free hand.

So far, there had been no sign of Ross and Marino. Irina was sure that they were searching, but the Amazon was vast, and finding them would be nearly impossible. With every step deeper into the forest, the squeeze of anxiety in her chest lessened a bit. As much as she had maintained her outward composure, American custody had rattled her. The sting of her blistered legs reminded her what awaited if she were recaptured, and she ground her teeth, walking faster.

Jones stepped up to her side, cap tipped low over his eyes. His clothes were rumpled and stained with sweat, and he held their canteen in one hand.

"We're almost out of water."

"We are only a few kilometers from the river." Spalko jerked her chin forward. She had a vague idea of where they were in relation to Iquitos, and she estimated that the river ran perpendicular to their course. Jones offered her the last of the water, but she shook her head.

"We should conserve it."

They approached a small hill, and the terrain grew steeper. Stowing her weapon, she listened to the distant rush of the river, the crash of water on rocks. The ground was swampier here, littered with dead leaves and brush. A small creek cut through the base of the hill, winding towards the river. The creek bed was slippery and lined with rocks, but she managed to cross quickly, scrambling up the opposite bank.

Jones overtook her, picking his way up the muddy hill. Her muscles protested as she climbed up after him, and there was a stabbing pain in her ribs with each breath. A sudden wave of dizziness clouded her vision, and her knees buckled. She was barely aware of hitting the ground, and when she regained awareness, she felt a light pressure on her shoulder.

"Spalko?" Jones shook her arm, and she opened her eyes to find him kneeling beside her. He had placed his jacket under her head, and his brow was furrowed.

She managed a faint greeting and tried to sit up, but Jones gestured for her to stay put. "We should stop for the day."

The thought of allowing Ross and Marino to catch up with them brought on a dull panic, but she tabled her objections for the time being. Jones rummaged through the rucksack, and then the metal of the canteen clinked against her teeth.

"Here. Drink."

After a few sips, Jones withdrew the canteen. "Do you think you can make it to the river? This isn't a suitable place to camp."

"Yes." Her voice sounded weak and hoarse, but she managed to push herself upright. Jones offered an arm, and she took it.

Together, they made their way the last few kilometers to the river, moving slowly. Spalko leaned heavily against his arm, too spent to be concerned about their physical proximity. When they came within sight of the riverbank, he gestured to a particularly large tree up ahead. The roots arched high above the ground and would provide a decent frame for their tarp.

"Here. I'll refill our canteen."

* * *

Indy walked slowly back from the river, swinging his canteen. The day had not gone according to plan, and he was frustrated to lose a day of travel. And yet, Spalko was in no condition to trek through the jungle, and he wouldn't consider leaving her behind. He had only taken her along as an affront to Ross and Marino, but he didn't relish the idea of traveling alone. His brush with Typhus a few years prior had reinforced for him the dangers of the jungle. If something went wrong, it was better to have a partner.

Reaching the campsite, he found Spalko sitting in the shade of the tree. She had taken off her boots and rolled up her fatigue pants, and she was in the process of tearing out the lining of her jacket for bandages. Her legs were mangled and blistered, but she looked more annoyed than pained.

"Hello, Jones." She nodded, not looking up.

Indy dropped down beside her. "How do you feel?"

She shrugged. "Let me apply these bandages, and I will be ready to continue."

"No. We're stopping for the day," he said decisively, giving her an incredulous look.

"Stop if you wish. I intend to continue." Her eyes flashed with irritation, but he didn't miss the fear underneath her chilly demeanor.

He leaned forward. "Why are you so intent on continuing? It's foolish-"

"-Ross and Marino are doubtless tracking us. I cannot go back to the prison."

"Trying to find us will be like searching for a needle in a haystack."

"Haystack?" She looked up at him, confused by the idiom.

"It's an American expression. The Amazon is too vast for them to be able to find us."

"Ah." She tossed her jacket aside and began wrapping her legs. Jones took a sip from the canteen, feeling the tension begin to dissipate.

"Really, Dr. Spalko. We'll make better time tomorrow if we rest today."

She sighed and looked past him, considering this. Then: "Fine. I agree."

He smiled inwardly and leaned back on his elbows. An unseen animal rustled the leaves above his head, and he glimpsed the flash of a brightly-colored wing. The sky had faded to gray, promising rain, and a light wind stirred the branches. A few months ago, he would have enjoyed the relative peace. Now, it made room for thoughts of Marion and his son. It was better to keep his mind engaged, in order to keep from drowning.

Digging through the rucksack, he retrieved the knife and began to sharpen it. The whetstone fit neatly into his palm, and he watched in satisfaction as the blade flashed against the surface. Eventually, they would need to resort to hunting to supplement their food supply. He estimated that they had enough MREs to last for three weeks, four if they were careful.

Spalko broke the silence. "Why are you not leaving me behind?" Her tone was blandly curious, and Indy was surprised by the question.

"We're allies," he responded with a shrug. "Besides, it's dangerous to travel in the jungle alone."

She nodded in agreement. Then she said grudgingly, "I appreciate your assistance."

"It's just practical."

"Nonetheless-"

"—You're welcome."

* * *

Crouched under the tarp, Irina stared out at the falling rain. It was nearly dusk, but the weather had precluded them from building a fire. Beside her, Jones held up a few strips of bark, fashioning a snare. He squinted in the dim light, then crossed one ribbon over the others, knotting it tightly. The knife sat beside him, and he retrieved it to trim away the excess fibers. Finally satisfied, he stashed the snare in the knapsack and brushed off his hands.

Spalko was still irritated by the time they had lost, but the rest had been much needed. Her dizziness had subsided, and her ribs no longer burned with each breath. Their campsite was a good one, and the tarp kept the ground mostly dry. She could hear the river roaring in the distance, but they were too far away to worry about flash floods. Stretching her legs in front of her, she glanced at Jones.

"What will you do when we arrive in Lima?" Spalko would go back to Moscow, of course, but Jones would still be evading authorities.

"I have friends in Leipzig, friends in Shanghai…my skills are always in demand." He said this with a gruff confidence that wasn't exactly pride. Jones was well-known among anthropologists and treasure hunters alike, and Spalko had been familiar with his work long before the mission to Akator.

Spalko nodded silently in response.

"And you?"

"I will return to Moscow. My commanding officer awaits my report."

"And what will you tell them? That you didn't find anything?"

She shrugged. "They were interested in the skull as an experimental weapon. Obviously, that application is not feasible."

He laughed shortly. "No, I guess it's not."

Without really meaning to speak, she found herself continuing. "My failure will be a great disappointment. I had hoped…" She trailed off.

"…What?"

Well, never mind what she had hoped. Despite her high rank in the Science and Technology Directorate, she was all too aware of how other officers perceived her. Born in a rural village in the Carpathian Mountains, she had been ostracized and scorned for her unusual gifts. Some called her a psychic, but she simply knew how to read a face. Subtle and oft-overlooked details, like a twitch of the mouth or jut of the chin told her just what her subject was thinking. Her mother was dead, and her father was a mercurial alcoholic, which gave her ample opportunity to hone her skills. When her pleas to attend school fell on deaf ears, she nicked her brothers' science textbooks and read them by candlelight. With a borrowed pocketknife, she dissected the dead mice she collected from the barn, meticulously following the steps outlined in the textbooks. In her notebooks, she carefully sketched and documented everything she saw.

Just before her fifteenth birthday, her father had discovered the sketches and accused her of witchcraft. Girls were not supposed to study biology, and her dissections could only be for devilish purposes. He had tossed her out, and she had hitchhiked her way to Kiev, where she found work as a sniper for the Red Army. The year was 1942, and no one looked too critically at the age on her identity papers. She had spent years working her way up in the ranks, and eventually her talents had caught the attention of a high-level officer in the KGB. Yes, she was a Ukrainian and a woman, but the Soviet Union was in no position to reject talented recruits. And yet, there was always the pressure to prove she belonged, to assert her value as a soldier and a scientist. Her failure was a disappointment, indeed.

She settled for a shrug. "I had hoped for a more favorable outcome."

Jones glanced at her, saying nothing. In the darkness, she could barely make out his face. Finally: "How in the hell did you survive Akator?"

It was a fair question, but one she couldn't answer. "I don't know. And you? You were also in the temple when it collapsed."

"Blink luck, I guess. I had a bad feeling, so I told Mutt and Marion to run. We barely made it out before the walls crumbled behind us." There was a slight hitch in his voice, and Irina was reminded that it had only been a few days since he learned of his family's fate.

"…Thank you, by the way. For telling me what happened to them."

"You deserved to know."

"Ross betrayed my trust."

"Yes."

Spalko felt exhaustion dragging at her limbs, and she was relieved when Jones broke the silence. "I'll take first watch?"

"Fine." The ground was cold and muddy, so she settled for leaning against the tree that anchored their shelter. Letting her eyes drift shut, she listened to the tap of the rain on the tarp. She hoped that the weather would deter Ross and Marino from continuing the search; the creeping anxiety in the back of her mind kept her from sleep. Death would be preferable to returning to prison, and she was bound and determined to make it to Lima. Even if the mission itself had ended in failure, she hoped her field data would prove useful. At the very least, it would allow the Directorate to eliminate that particular line of research. Fixing this thought in her mind, she slowed her breathing and fell asleep.


	7. Currents

Indy awoke to darkness and the hiss of a whisper in his ear. Stretched out on the cold ground, he heard the slosh of rain on the tarp above his head. Instinctively, he felt for his knife, and found it where he had left it, holstered neatly at his side. With a groan, he forced his eyes open to find Spalko kneeling over him, shaking his shoulder.

"Jones!"

Alarmed by her insistent tone, Indy sat up, dragging a hand over his eyes. "What is it?"

"Do you hear something?"

He paused. Over the steady tap of rain and rustling leaves, there was the unmistakable crack of a gunshot, loud enough to have originated a few miles away. This was followed by a chorus of distant shouts and the percussion of a motor backfiring. Finally, there was the cacophonous howl of tracking hounds. He looked at Spalko, and saw his own panic reflected in her eyes. Without speaking, they started to gather their things. With shaking hands, Indy tore down the tarp and stuffed it into his backpack, not bothering to shake off the rainwater.

Spalko unholstered her gun and clicked off the safety. "Let's go."

Indy followed her into the underbrush. Despite the darkness and rain, they made good time, and soon reached the banks of the river. There was a sudden clap of thunder, and a faint vein of lightning appeared in the sky. Spalko approached the embankment and slid down slowly, then stepped to the edge of the water. Indy followed, and handfuls of dirt crumbled around him as he climbed down. The river was moving quickly, and his feet slipped against the sand. Spalko untangled her arm from the makeshift sling and switched the gun to her opposite hand.

"It will be more difficult for them to track us in the water."

Indy looked dubiously at the rushing water before them, noting the rocks and debris half-hidden under the surface. He had seen people swept away by lesser rivers, and the steady rain meant that the current would only continue to gain strength. Somewhere behind them, he heard a loud barking, and headlights swept the trees. Indy bit his lip and glanced over his shoulder, then tightened the straps of his pack.

"Let's go."

Linking arms against the current, they waded into the river. The water was cold and murky, and Indy placed his feet carefully. The riverbed was uneven and slippery, but his feet sunk into the mud, anchoring him a little. Beside him, Spalko still held her pistol, and her knuckles were white against the grip. Scanning the trees, he saw the distant flicker of a flashlight, and a new chorus of shouts began. A chill shot down his spine.

"Too late," Spalko muttered, squeezing his arm.

A sudden column of light swept the bank in front of them, and he heard the crunch of boots on sand. Someone lit a lantern, and Indy saw that there were nearly a dozen soldiers standing at the water's edge. With a start, he recognized the closest figure as Agent Marino. His lips stretched into a triumphant smile, and his eyeglasses caught the light. Indy knew that he had spotted them. Slowly backing into the water, he felt for his pistol, unhooking his free arm from Spalko's as he moved. Her eyes were wild with terror and dread, but she had already raised her weapon, and her hand was steady.

Marino's voice echoed over the water. "You will surrender at once! Drop your weapons and place your hands in the air."

Scanning the bank, Indy counted at least twelve soldiers, all armed to the teeth. Reluctantly, he holstered his pistol and complied with the order. He supposed that there would be better chances to fight, and he recognized the weakness of his position, standing in a fast-moving river with only a low-caliber pistol. As soon as his hands were up, a flashlight was trained on his face, blinding him momentarily.

"Dr. Jones, I want you to approach the bank."

He sloshed forward, keeping his eyes on Marino. Once on the sand, he dropped to his knees, shivering in the chilly night air. A soldier approached him and shoved his shoulder roughly.

"Stay on the ground."

Lying on his stomach, Indy caught a glimpse of Spalko standing in the middle of the creek, anchored defiantly in place. The soldier had planted a boot against the middle of his back, pinning him to the sand. The rough grains bit into his cheek, but he hardly noticed, listening intently.

"I don't want to return, Marino. I'd much rather you kill me." Spalko's voice was loud and steady.

The agent snarled, and from the trees, he heard the baying of the dogs draw closer. "Comply. Now."

There was a tense silence, and Indy heard the click of a rifle being reloaded. He gulped, expecting at any moment to see Spalko drop in a hail of bullets. Instead:

"Fine. Allow me to holster my handgun."

Marino made a noise of assent, and Spalko slowly lowered her arm, strapping the weapon to her belt. Once she was finished, she raised her hands.

"Now, walk towards the bank, and be careful. We will not hesitate to shoot."

Irina paused for a moment, as if preparing to obey Marino's directive. Then, in the blink of an eye, she dropped her arms and slipped under the surface of the river. With a shout of consternation, Marino drew his gun.

"Open fire!"

There was a series of explosions behind him, and Indy heard the splash of bullets hitting the water. With a boot against his back, he could only watch tensely. He didn't know if Spalko could swim, and the gunfire was as likely to kill her as the current. When no body bobbed to the surface, Marino gestured for his men to spread out.

"Find the prisoner! Now!"

The pressure against his spine abruptly eased, and the soldier jerked him to his feet. Indy watched Marino whirl around, waving his men into the water. Indy felt an arm lock around his throat, and a voice snapped in his ear:

"Stay still."

Just as he was preparing a reply, there was the crack of a shot. The soldier guarding Indy fell to the ground with a thud, clutching his chest. Indy stepped past him and ran into the trees, ignoring the branches that tore at his arms. There was a brief flash in the darkness somewhere upstream, and a chorus of shouts. Picking up the pace, Jones sped into the darkness, heading for higher ground.

* * *

Spalko dove into the muddy water, listening to the muffled shouts above her head. Near the middle, the creek was nearly ten feet deep, and she kept to this section, swimming against the current. Her lungs burned, and she heard the hail of bullets hitting the water, but she kept on, fueled by the terror of going back with Marino.

Somewhere above her, flashlight beams lit up the water. Changing course, she swam for the opposite side of the river, and the heavy tangle of roots that tumbled from the edge of the bank. When she reached the shadows, she surfaced for air, keeping an eye on the action downstream. Backing deeper into the canopy of roots and rotted vegetation, she watched a soldier jerk Jones to his feet, wrapping an arm around his neck. Every instinct screamed at Irina to stay hidden, but she glided forward, reaching for her gun. The first bullet felled the soldier guarding Jones, and Spalko was relieved to see him drop. Jones darted for the trees as the attention of the search party turned to her.

Spalko fired off a random spray of bullets and holstered her gun, then took a gulping breath and slipped underwater. She was aware of a stinging pain in her side, and her barely-healed arm burned with the exertion of propelling her forward. After a few minutes, she surfaced to take a breath, and found the shore empty. After swimming a few more meters for good measure, she paused again, listening intently. She could still hear the shouting of the search party, but the sound was farther away. Thus decided, she took hold of a sturdy tangle of roots and scrambled up the bank, shaking the water from her clothes.

The night was cloudy, and visibility was poor. Spalko drew her weapon and began to run. Moving through the darkness, she stayed roughly parallel to the river, casting furtive glances behind her. Her clothes were wet and heavy, and her boots were waterlogged. The darkness and rain kept the mosquitoes at bay, but she worried quietly about wild animals and poisonous insects hidden by the night. Still, she ran until her knees buckled and she hit the ground, too exhausted to keep moving.

As the sky grew lighter, she gathered her strength and moved towards a nearby rock, pulse loud in her ears. The stinging in her side was sharper now, and she noticed a circle of blood on her fatigues. One of the bullets had grazed her, but it didn't seem serious. It was a small price to pay for escape. Marino was gone, and with any luck, Jones had slipped away. If he continued along the route they'd plotted, he would eventually find her. Until then, she supposed she would wait.

* * *

A few hours after dawn, Jones caught up with her. Spalko still sat on the rock, pistol propped against her knees. When Jones stepped out of the trees, fedora pushed low over his eyes, she gave him an exhausted nod.

"You made it."

He swung the rucksack off his shoulder and sat down beside her, dragging a hand over his brow. "You're not a bad shot."

She smiled, feeling no need to contradict him. "I was a sniper in the Great Patriotic War."

"No kidding." He glanced at her, eyes lighting momentarily. Then: "Thanks for giving me a change to escape."

She shrugged. "I owed you."

"Can we consider ourselves even?"

She nodded, and he offered his hand. Despite the heat, his palm was cool and dry, and she gave his hand a robust shake. The old resentments were breaking down between them, and she found herself strangely pleased that he had managed to find her. Yes, travelling with a partner was safer and more efficient, but she was certain she could survive on her own. More relevant here was her own feeling that Jones was a skilled and trustworthy companion. She could hardly admit it to herself, but she enjoyed his company.

Jones broke off the handshake and began untying the rucksack. Retrieving the canteen and two MRE bars, he handed the food to her.

"Eat."

She nodded and took a sip from the canteen. While they ate, they examined the battered map that Jones had brought along. She quickly found the small river and pointed to a dot to the southwest. If they swung around the Brazilian border, they would make it to Lima in six weeks' time. Between the two cities were small pockets of civilization, and she supposed they could steal a truck or stow away aboard a ship traveling down the Ucayali river. The knowledge that Marino was not far behind them gnawed at her, and she didn't relish the thought of encountering him again.

"We are not moving quickly enough," she said softly, pointing to their location, only a few dozen kilometers outside of Iquitos. "I think we should find transportation in Nauta. It is only sixty kilometers from our location."

"If we keep a good pace, we'll arrive in three days." Jones bit his lip, staring thoughtfully at the map.

"Yes."

"There are plenty of riverboats in Nauta. We could stow away or sell something to pay for passage."

"We could also steal a truck."

"A boat might be more practical."

She shrugged and folded the map carefully, returning it to the pack. Jones stood.

"I think we should keep going."

Swinging the pack over her shoulder, Spalko followed, ignoring the stiffness in her muscles. Every step hurt, but she gritted her teeth and followed Jones into the jungle.


	8. Shot in the Dark

Through the rain, Nauta looked bleak and grey. A jumble of stilt houses, plywood shacks, and overturned fishing boats lined the shore of the Ucayali river, and a few larger boats were tied to an aging dock. A stone church and a few crumbling colonial-era buildings flanked the small plaza near the center of town. Standing at the top of a small hill, Indy watched the fishing boats bob in the rain, tightening the straps of his backpack.

It had taken them nearly four days to reach Nauta, slowed down by the need to avoid detection by Ross and Marino. Traveling via the beaten paths was out of the question, and they had taken several detours to avoid the more populated areas. Now, Indy was reasonably sure that they had managed to lose their pursuers. It only remained to find a ship to take them to Lima and freedom.

Beside him, Spalko stepped onto the road, smoothing her hair with one hand. They were both bedraggled and rain-soaked, but Indy supposed that there was no chance of blending in regardless. They had spent the better part of the journey arguing about how to pay for their passage, and Spalko still looked disgruntled. Given that they had a gun, Indy wanted to sell the knife. Everything else was indispensable, and they could buy better weapons once they reached Lima. Spalko, however, insisted that they should part with the vial of quinine.

"The chances are low that we'd survive malaria under the current circumstances," she'd argued cynically, picking up the knife and testing the blade against a nearby branch. "And quinine is not readily available in Nauta, while knives are cheap."

He'd grudgingly acquiesced, and so they would attempt to sell the medicine in town. Indy carried the small bottle in his pocket, wrapped carefully in a strip of cloth. With every step, it bumped against his leg, and he silently fretted about the odds of finding a ride. Now, as he looked at the poor assortment of rickety boats along the river's edge, he resisted the urge to panic.

"Let's go." Spalko pushed past him and set off down the road.

They soon reached the plaza, which was nearly deserted. Under an awning, an elderly man sat crouched, a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth.

" _Buenas tardes_." Indy greeted him politely in Spanish, inclining his head. The man plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and stood with a wince. Dressed in fatigue pants and a faded tee shirt, he wore his sparse hair carefully combed towards his forehead. He looked at the pair with suspicion, then began speaking in rapid-fire Spanish.

"What brings you to Nauta? And on such a gloomy day?"

"Vehicle trouble," Indy said neutrally, "We are looking for passage to Lima."

"Lima? Today?"

"Well, as soon as possible."

The man twirled his cigarette in his fingers, watching the smoke collect near the top of the awning. "My cousin is leaving for Goyllarisquizga tomorrow. If you can pay his fare, he will let you come along."

"Why not Lima?"

"Lima cannot be reached by river. It's only 100 miles from Goyllarisquizga, and I suppose you can walk."

Indy felt a spark of hope. "May we speak with him?"

The man shrugged and gestured for them to follow. They cut across the rainswept plaza and towards the river. After a few minutes, he stopped in front of a wooden fishing shack, old but freshly whitewashed.

"Gabriel? It's Mauricio."

In response to the call, the door swung open and a short man appeared. He was middle-aged and dressed in the same manner as their guide, and his skin was leathery and rough from a lifetime on the water. Glancing at the visitors, he crossed his arms.

"Mauricio, why are you bothering me? I am working on my nets today."

Indy cast his eyes into the house, where a great heap of netting lay tangled by the far wall.

"Can you take passengers tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure."

"They can pay."

"Fine." Gabriel motioned Mauricio aside and nodded to Indy, inviting him to speak.

"We have no currency, but we do have a bottle of quinine. We hear that it's difficult to obtain outside of the major cities."

Gabriel shrugged. "At times."

"We want to trade it for our passage."

"'We'?"

"My associate and I…" Indy pointed to Spalko, who looked a bit surly. She spoke very poor Spanish, and the negotiation had thus fallen to Indy.

"One bottle of quinine isn't enough. Do you have anything else?"

"A knife—" Indy retrieved the blade from his backpack and handed it to Mauricio. The older man held it up to the light, pursing his lips.

"Fine. We leave at sunrise tomorrow. In the meantime, you can stay in my lean-to."

They shook on it, and then Mauricio led them to a door at the back of the shack. A tiny room was tacked onto the back of the house, half-occupied by a rusty outboard motor and a folded drying rack. In the corner were a homemade mattress and an unlit kerosene lantern.

"Sleep here. If you are not ready at dawn, I will leave without you."

* * *

The night was quiet, save the buzz of insects and the low hiss of the kerosene lamp. Resting on the rough mattress, Indy watched shadows flicker against the ceiling. It was barely past sundown, but he was exhausted and hungry, having decided to save their rations for the next day. Beside him, Spalko rifled through the backpack and retrieved the bottle of quinine. With a scowl, she placed it next to the door.

"You shouldn't have offered him the knife. It was too much."

Without turning his head, Indy responded, "He wouldn't have gone for the quinine alone. We didn't have a choice."

She sniffed, and Indy heard her returning footsteps. Lifting the lantern, she turned the dial until the flame was extinguished, shrouding the room in darkness.

"Should we take watches?" In the dimness, he could barely make out her silhouette standing above him.

"I don't think it's necessary."

She assented. "Move over."

Indy felt her settle beside him, her shoulder barely touching his. There was a click as she set the safety on her handgun and sat it aside, then she spoke.

"Good night, Jones."

"Good night," he responded automatically. And yet, he realized, staring into the darkness, something had changed over the past weeks. He had come to like Spalko, if not trust her. She was tenacious, straightforward, and reliable in a fight. As far as trust went, he knew she wouldn't kill him in his sleep, but he also knew that her first allegiance was to the Soviet Union. Once they reached Lima, they would again be on opposite sides of a massive, interminable war. A war that made less and less sense to Indy the more he pondered. He'd always been interested in the scientific aspects of anthropology; he had never sought an answer to why humans continued to kill each other in vague ideological conflicts.

Indy had, of course, served in the last war, and he had the scars and medals to prove it. While he had worked for military intelligence in Germany, Spalko had been a sniper in the Red Army. He wondered idly if they'd ever crossed paths, back when they were, at least theoretically, on the same side. He hadn't met many Russians during his service, but the Red Army had had a ferocious reputation. Working undercover in Germany, he'd certainly seen his share of horrors, but it was nothing compared to the battles that raged on the Eastern Front. At least that war had made sense; now, he simply wished the world could quiet down.

Beside him, Spalko was very still, eyes turned to the ceiling. Quietly, she asked, "How long do you estimate our journey to Goyllarisquizga will be?"

He was surprised by the question. "Three days, perhaps. Why?"

There was a pause, and then she spoke carefully, "My commanding officer will want to know why I failed. I should rehearse my explanation."

She sounded uneasy, but it was too dark to make out her expression. She turned away abruptly, and Indy followed, reaching for her shoulder.

"What's going on?"

She brushed him away, but not before he noticed that she was shaking. "The Science and Technology Directorate has exacting standards."

"Why go back if you expect trouble?"

"Loyalty," she said stiffly.

Indy didn't know how to respond. He said simply, "You should get some rest. You'll have plenty of time to sort out your story tomorrow."

"I suppose so." She turned back, and her face was momentarily illuminated by the faint light leaking through the door. Perhaps it was the darkness, or her uneasy expression, or his exhausted state, but something made him reach for her hand. She said nothing when he laced his fingers through hers, only squeezed his hand until it began to go numb. They rested like that for a long moment, and then she slid closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"This is strange," she said quietly.

"I know."

"Let us never speak of it again."

He nodded in agreement, and she closed her eyes, still leaning on his shoulder. Exhaustion dragged down his eyelids, and he drifted off, ignoring the buzz of mosquitos and the prickle of straw against his back. The last thing he heard before oblivion was Spalko addressing him quietly.

" _Thank you_."

* * *

Jones awoke to distant shouts and the roar of rain against the roof. It was nearly sunrise, and Spalko was already up, fiddling with the dial of the lamp. She managed to ignite it, just as a heavy knock shook the door.

Gabriel burst into the tiny room, clothes dripping with rainwater. His shoulders were covered in an oilcloth rain poncho, and he had a net folded under his arm.

"I will pray for the weather to clear," he said with a scowl. "In the meantime, we should depart."

Spalko nodded and stood up, tossing Indy his leather jacket. Although he'd promised not to speak of it, Indy remembered the events of the night before with dismay. Yes, he felt something for Spalko, but those feelings were best put aside. Marion was barely cold in the ground, and here he was embracing the woman who was, in some way, responsible for her accident. A surge of guilt welled in his chest, and he scowled, silently pulling on his coat.

Gabriel gave them an impatient look, and Indy slung his pack over his shoulder and headed for the door. Spalko snatched up the pistol and followed, pausing to extinguish the lamp. As soon as they stepped out of the shack, Indy was hit with a wall of rain. Beyond the shoreline, the river was running high, and Gabriel's boat bobbed against its anchor, buffeted by waves. It was hardly more than a canoe, with a motor welded haphazardly to one side and an awning covering the interior. Gabriel gathered up his net and tossed it inside the boat, then added a cache of food, two jugs of water, and the knife he'd traded for their passage. Finally, he gestured for them to board.

Indy stepped unsteadily off the dock, grateful for the shelter provided by the tarp. The space was small and damp, and he picked his way to the bench at the back. Spalko followed, wringing the water from her hair. They watched as Gabriel cast off and started the motor, squinting in the rain. He quickly navigated to the center of the river, where the boat rocked unsteadily. Indy gripped the side of the bench as Gabriel cursed aloud.

Indy didn't mind the tension as it helped to distract from his thoughts. Staring out into the roiling gray of the Ucayali River, he let the storm distract him from the guilty weight in his chest.


	9. Cast No Shadow

It was their second day on the river, and rain still tapped steadily against the awning. Leaning against the side of the boat, Spalko listened to the slosh of waves and the steady hum of the outboard motor. Gabriel did not believe in stopping at night, and he lit a few lanterns at sunset, relying on his memory to avoid clusters of rocks and sandbars. She hadn't slept since leaving Nauta, and she was dizzy with exhaustion, her limbs sore from confinement in the in the tiny interior. It was barely dawn, and Gabriel estimated that they were only a few hours from Goyllarisquizga. He had advised them that the town was little more than an outpost, and that there would be no place for them to stay. Instead, he suggested that they get a head start on the journey to Lima, as the terrain was rocky and difficult to navigate. Spalko hoped that the walk would take no more than a week. Still, both of them were still nursing minor injuries, and ten miles a day was optimistic when traveling in the mountains.

Jones occupied the opposite side of the boat, trailing an absent hand through the water. He'd been quiet and lethargic since their departure, and Spalko chose to give him space. He'd been happy enough to sleep beside her, to offer a comforting hand when she'd worried about her report; his terse demeanor mystified her. Still, she had more important matters to consider. She hadn't yet resolved what she would say to explain her failure at Akator, and time was running out. She knew she had failed, and she was prepared to accept the punishment for not achieving her objective. And yet, she was uneasy. She'd heard stories of other Soviet agents who ended up in a Gulag after failing a mission; others were simply put in front of a firing squad. The Soviet Union was her raison d'etre, and the thought of not living up to expectations sent a stabbing pain through her gut. She wanted to avoid the Gulag, but more than anything, she wanted to avoid disappointing the KGB.

Pulling a hand roughly over her eyes, she straightened up. The wounds on her legs were healing nicely, but her back was still crisscrossed with angry red burns. She had lanced the worst of the blisters and packed on gauze, but her back still stung when she moved. Her nails were beginning to grow back, and her gloves protected the nailbeds from irritation. Still, she worried constantly about infection; the jungle was not a sterile environment, and even the water carried pathogens.

Noticing her movement, Jones glanced across the boat. "Ever been to Goyllarisquizga?"

She hadn't. "No. I have not been to the Andes at all."

He laughed shortly, and his tone was tired. "Get ready for the most impassible terrain in the world."

"Worse than anything in America?" She hadn't seen much of the country when she'd visited New Mexico to retrieve the coffin, but she'd glimpsed endless desert and freezing, jagged mountains. She'd been born in the Crimean Mountains of Eastern Ukraine, but the inclines had been gentler, and there was always the glittering sea below. The American Rockies were something much more formidable.

"Perhaps." He shrugged, crossing his arms loosely. "The cloud forests can get chilly, too. We will be glad to have jackets."

Spalko nodded in response. Concerns about the terrain joined the swirl of her thoughts, and she felt a brief spark of panic. She needed something material to occupy her, and so she retrieved their pack and took inventory of the contents. Ten ration bars, the gun, a tarp, a box of matches, a length of rope, and a roll of bandages. The routine of sorting and repacking their supplies soothed her nerves, and when she stowed the pack securely under the bench, she felt better. Taking a deep breath, she returned to her seat and looked out at the churning waves.

* * *

Up in the cloud forest, the air was thinner, and the nights were a bit colder than she'd anticipated. They'd been walking for three days, and Irina estimated that they'd covered about fifty miles. Near the peak of the last mountain, they'd spotted the crumbling brick edifice of a monastery, about a day's walk away. They would stop there to gather provisions and ask for directions to the main road that would take them into Lima.

The rain tapped against her hat, and her clothes were becoming more soaked by the mile. Although her pistol was safely tucked in her boot, Spalko wished that they still had the knife. Beside her, Indy looked worn, exhaustion deepening the lines in his face. He moved more slowly than usual, and she wondered if he was becoming dehydrated. Retrieving the canteen, she signaled for them to stop.

"Jones, you don't look well."

He shrugged, tilting up his hat with one finger. "Neither do you."

She rolled her eyes and sat down on a nearby log, then handed him the canteen. He took a long gulp of water and passed it back to her. The sun was beginning to creep above the treeline, burning off the last of the rain. Spalko turned the canteen over in her hands, trying to ignore his chilly silence. When she again offered him a drink, he shook his head silently. Finally:

"Why do you not speak?"

Jones looked at her, startled. "I'm conserving my energy," he responded flatly.

She stared for a moment, eyes narrowed. "You are lying."

"What, are you going to try to read my mind again?"

She laughed shortly, but there was no mirth behind it. "That was just an interrogation tactic."

"And a pretty poor one." He paused, and a sour look crossed his face. "You really want me to answer your question?"

"Yes."

"It's because of Marion."

"Explain," she demanded quietly, a bit unnerved by the rage in his eyes but unwilling to stop pushing.

"She wouldn't be dead if you hadn't forced her to come to this goddamn jungle." He ground out the words, emphasizing each syllable. Snatching off his fedora, he crumpled it in his fist.

"And yet, it was the Americans who put her on a bushplane that was not airworthy," Spalko retorted.

He sprang up, practically snarling. "You chose to bring her here in the first place!"

"I was doing my duty. You can certainly empathize." She followed him, tearing off her gloves so that he could see her half-healed fingers. The motion stung a bit, but she was too angry to care.

"I did the right thing, Spalko-"

"—Only after watching your countrymen torture me nearly to death."

His face went white, and he turned on his heel, slamming his hat back onto his head. "I should have left you there."

She sank back onto the log, too blinded by rage to notice him stalking off into the forest. He'd left the pack behind, and she absently stowed the canteen, then replaced her gloves. She tried to quiet her thoughts and redirect her attention to more important matters, but his words felt like a physical weight on her shoulders. They were nonsense, of course; Jones had helped her escape as a way of wounding Marino. There was no altruism behind it, only practicality. And yet, the nastiness of his words had hurt her. She understood duty, and she suspected he did, too. He had to know that she'd only kidnapped Mary Williams and her son under orders from her commanding officer; she bore them no malice. In return, Jones had helped Marino and Ross interrogate her, and he hadn't intervened when they broke her nose or kept her sleep-deprived for days. Indeed, he'd only acted when he saw a chance to get even with Ross and Marino.

Jones had no right to the moral high ground, not after everything he'd been party to. Picking up a twig, she snapped it in two, then tossed the pieces aside. She supposed she should go after Jones, but it sounded unappealing. Instead, she retrieved the gun and unloaded it, determined to put the empty time to use. Disassembling the weapon carefully, she dug a scrap of cloth from the knapsack and began cleaning each piece. Jones would return sooner or later, as they intended to reach the monastery by sundown.

* * *

Indy stalked down the mountainside, equal parts tired and angry. His muscles ached for a rest, but he didn't stop, letting the momentum of his grief carry him. He'd chosen to forget about Marion for a few weeks, to allow his own survival to take precedence. But despite his best efforts, she'd come rushing back, her memory as heady and furious as her living presence had been. If he forced himself to think logically, he knew he couldn't blame Spalko for her death. And yet, he couldn't imagine what Marion would think of his détente with the Soviet agent. Indy had never believed in an afterlife, and he certainly didn't think that Marion's spirit still lingered, but moving on felt like abandoning her all over again.

Reaching a fork in the path, Indy sighed and stopped. The rain had started anew, rustling the canopy of foliage above his head. Despite the heat, he felt suddenly chilly, and he noticed a slight tremor in his hands. Reluctantly, he turned around and started walking towards camp. He hoped that Spalko was still too angry to speak to him; he needed the quiet to sort out his guilty conscience. He wasn't sure if it was just the physical effect of his grief, but he was feeling weaker and groggier by the minute. He was happy that they were close to the monastery, and he hoped the monks would allow them to stay overnight.

Reaching the camp, he found Spalko still sitting in the shade, stripping and cleaning their handgun. Her face had settled into its usual unreadable expression, and she held a bit of metal up to the light, scrutinizing a spot of rust.

"Spalko?" Indy stepped out of the trees, arms crossed over his chest.

She nodded curtly. "Enough time spent on nonsense. Let's depart."

Indy watched her reassemble the gun with practiced speed. Without another word, she tossed him the canteen and slung the knapsack over her own shoulder. Stowing the canteen, Indy felt a sudden wave of dizziness, strong enough to knock him to his knees. His vision went cloudy, and he cradled his head in his hands, wincing at the tension in his skull.

"…Give me a minute," he bit out.

He heard Spalko crouch beside him, and she prodded his shoulder. "Are you injured?"

"My muscles ache, and I'm freezing cold."

He opened his eyes to see her eyeing him thoughtfully. "Malaria?"

He winced. It did explain his symptoms, but without medical treatment, he was in trouble. It was a cruel irony that they'd traded the quinine away.

She pressed a hand to his forehead and scowled. "Without medical care, the infection will kill you."

"I appreciate your confidence." Walking to the monastery felt insurmountable, but it was probably their only option. "Help me up."

"Wait, Jones. We should leave the knapsack. I cannot carry both you and our supplies."

"Let me have the gun."

She handed it to him, and he stowed it in the pocket of his jacket. She took the compass and a handful of bullets, then tossed the bag aside. Finally, she offered him a hand and hauled him up. Standing made Indy dizzy, but Spalko looped his arm over her shoulders, and he felt a bit more steady.

He couldn't bring himself to offer a full apology, but he said, "I suppose I'm glad I didn't leave you in Iquitos."

She snorted dismissively. "I would have escaped, with or without your help."

* * *

The monks of Monasterio Pablo de Tarso did not often have visitors. Their lives were regimented and ordinary, occupied with prayer, cleaning, and tending their large garden. There were 23 priests in total, and most had spent their entire adult lives in the old brick building. Brother Tiago had come to the monastery at the age of fourteen, and he'd spent twice that long in the service of the Catholic church. He was now in his early forties, with dark hair shaved close to his scalp and almond eyes hooded by prodigious eyebrows. He was a talented metalworker, and he spent his days with a soldering iron and shards of colorful glass, assembling windows.

Once the sun had started to set, he returned from the outbuilding he used as a workshop. No sooner had he stepped into the vestibule than he heard a weak knock at the door. Smoothing his cassock and running a hand over the crucifix he wore at his throat, Tiago went to the door and threw it open.

A man and a woman stood before him, half shrouded by the gloom. They were both muddy and damp, with torn clothes and battered, exhausted faces. The man shook like a leaf, and under a deep tan, his face was grayish and pinched.

Noticing Tiago's shock, the woman spoke. "We need help. My friend has malaria."

She spoke with a strong Slavic accent. Tiago stepped forward. "You are welcome here," he said automatically, "I will ask Brother Narciso to fetch some quinine."

As if summoned by his words, Narciso appeared from the interior of the house, followed by Brothers Guadalupe and Agustin. The three gawked at the visitors, and Narciso asked, "What is this?"

"I think they are lost, Brother. The man has malaria."

"Ah, well, I'll bring the quinine."

He disappeared, and Agustin stepped forward. The youngest of the group, he wore his shiny black hair neatly trimmed, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses sat on his nose. "Do you hear her accent? There is a Soviet presence just south of here. We do not want to be caught between-"

"—Enough, Brother Agustin. The man is ill, and we are commanded to heal the sick."

"But-?"

"—The discussion is closed." Short and bullish, with a heavy jaw, Brother Guadalupe generally seized the last word.

The woman watched them with pale blue eyes, lips pressed into a tight line. "My Spanish is poor," she said quietly, "but my companion can speak well."

"You can stay," Tiago said decisively. Agustin repeated the pronouncement in rough English.

The man had collapsed to the ground beside the door, shuddering and sweating profusely. "Let's get him to a spare room," Tiago suggested, motioning for Agustin and Guadalupe to help. The woman tried to approach, but he waved her off.

"You should rest, too. We have a second spare room up the stairs." He pointed in this direction and mimed going to sleep. She nodded in understanding but looked at her companion uncertainly.

"There is nothing you can do. Rest, and let us treat him."

She nodded stiffly. " _Gracias_."


	10. Rough Road

Indy awoke to rough blankets and a painful pounding in his skull. The chills had subsided, but his eyes felt gummy and dry, and his nightshirt was plastered to his back. He wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious, but he vaguely remembered Spalko dragging him through the monastery doors. After that, it was harried voices above his head, someone jabbing a needle into his arm, and nothing. The darkness had been nice, but it now occurred to him that he was on the run. Ross and Marino could've tracked them down in the time he was unconscious, and that sobering thought prompted him to drag his eyelids open.

Spalko sat before him, perched stiffly on a wooden stool, squinting down at a notebook. She looked much cleaner than the last time he'd seen her, and her fatigues were faded but freshly washed. Indy watched as she made a mark in the notebook, glaring at the page. If Ross and Marino had found them, he doubted she'd just be sitting there writing. Taking a deep breath, Indy knocked his hand against the bedpost.

She looked up. "Jones. Should I find Brother Tiago?"

"No." His voice was raspy and weak, and she dropped her notebook, giving him a long stare.

"It has been three days." Somehow, she knew exactly what information he wanted.

"Thank you."

She shrugged. "The monks insisted on a sedative. They said it would hasten your recovery."

"And why haven't you left?" The effort of talking stung his throat, but he wanted to know. "It's only fifty miles to Lima."

She turned up her palms. "I needed more time to prepare my report."

"I'm glad you stayed."

"Are you also glad you didn't leave me in prison?" Her voice had an acidic edge, and he didn't miss the anger that clouded her gaze.

"I already said yes," he responded simply, irritated that she was still stuck on this theme.

There was a sudden tap on the doorframe, and then a monk appeared, short and broad with heavy eyebrows. His expression was serious, but Indy could see the laugh lines that traced his mouth.

"Henry! How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks." _Better_ was a bit of a stretch, but he was awake and speaking, and that was a positive sign.

The man approached and laid a finger on Indy's neck, feeling for a pulse. "Has your fever broken?"

"I believe so." The monk wore a heavy crucifix, and a tiny silver medallion was tucked under his shirt. He didn't recognize the man's garb, but he hazarded a guess that the monks were Franciscan. His assumption was confirmed when he again glimpsed the medal, which was imprinted with an image of St. Francis of Assisi. At the edge of Indy's vision was a tiny window, and he saw a wide field and a cluster of thatched outbuildings. Tiny figures passed in and out of the largest building, all dressed in the same plain robes as the monk.

Spalko interrupted the short silence. "Brother Tiago, what is your prognosis?"

This was Brother Tiago, then. The man fixed his dark eyes on Spalko, speaking slow and basic Spanish. "He was very ill when you arrived, but your friend should recover in a week or so."

She nodded shortly. "Good."

"Now-" Tiago straightened up, smoothing his robes. "Brother Gregorio is heading into Lima for supplies. He will leave tomorrow. You can go along, if you like."

Spalko paused for a moment, them she shook her head stiffly. "Thank you, Brother, but my friend and I will depart together."

Indy cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "I think you should go, Spalko."

She gave him a withering look, and then stood up. "Brother, we need a moment."

"As you wish."

He shut the door behind him, and Spalko turned to Indy. "If I leave, you will have to hike to Lima alone."

"Or I can simply catch a ride the next time Brother Gregorio goes to Lima."

"Are you not worried about Ross and Marino?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Spalko. If they find us, I won't be able to slip away again, with or without your help."

She glowered down at him. "I am a very accurate marksman."

"That won't be enough against Ross' troops. We got lucky last time." Indy let his head fall back against the pillow, exhausted and sick of arguing.

"Fair enough, Jones. I will go." Before leaving, she picked up the stool and dragged it to a table across the room. She spoke no more, but from the tight set of her jaw, Indy knew she was angry.

* * *

Spalko swept her eyes over the room one last time, and then she stowed the pistol inside her boot. Without their pack, she was forced to store the rest of her supplies in the pockets of her jacket, and she decided to leave the compass behind. The sun was just beginning to leak through the shutters of the window, and her legs still ached from carrying Jones all the way to the monastery a few days before. When she'd arrived, she'd barely been able to climb the steps to the guestroom, and she'd slept for nearly twelve hours. Now, comparably unburdened, she stepped through the door and made her way downstairs.

She had an uneasy feeling about leaving Jones behind, and yet, she saw no alternative. There was a quiet Soviet presence in Lima, and she needed to tell her superiors what had happened. With every day they spent idly at the monastery, Ross and Marino drew ever closer. As uncomfortable as she was with debriefing her commanding officer about her failure, allowing the Americans to recapture her was infinitely worse. Whatever vague emotional ties she'd created with Jones didn't matter. She needed to fulfill her duty, and that would be impossible from an American prison cell.

Reaching the entrance to the infirmary, she stopped. The room was empty, and Jones was still asleep, face half-lit by the rising sun. He looked better today, and some of the color had returned to his face. Spalko took a slow step, and the creaking of the floorboards startled him awake.

"Are you leaving?"

She nodded, crouching beside him. "I'm taking our supplies."

"That's fine." The light caught in his eyelashes and illuminated the lines and crevasses of his face. He reached for her hand, and she let him thread their fingers together. "Watch your back."

"I will," she said flatly, wondering why she was still lingering. His fingertips were rough against her palm, and she felt something she couldn't identify. It kept her rooted in place, watching how the mosquito net above them cast web-like shadows over the floor.

"Thank you for helping me escape," she said finally, clumsy and unaccustomed to gratitude.

"Thank you for helping me hit back at Ross."

Without really considering what she was doing, Spalko raised a hand to his cheek. He met her eyes, and his expression softened. She leaned forward and kissed him briefly, hand still resting on his face. He stared at her, not saying anything. Then, his mouth turned up in a faint smile.

"Goodbye, Spalko. Take care."

"Goodbye."

* * *

The back of the truck was empty, and blue light filtered through the tarp that served as a roof. A heavy rain was falling outside, blurring Spalko's view of the steep incline just off the side of the road. Brother Gregorio guided the truck carefully along the mountain road, and the tires crunched and spun against the gravel. The monk had asked a novice to accompany him, and Spalko could hear them conversing in the cab, shouting to be heard above the downpour.

Pulling her knees to her chest, Spalko stared up at the roof, willing herself to focus on the upcoming debriefing. No doubt it would last hours, and her commanding officer would expect her to account for every misstep and stroke of bad luck. She would have to thread the needle of simultaneously taking responsibility and defending her own competence. She knew she should be apprehensive, and yet she found her mind wandering elsewhere.

She didn't know what had possessed her to kiss Jones. Yes, she felt something for him, and he hadn't exactly objected. But the action had served no purpose, only satisfied her own futile attraction to her travel companion. Her energy was wasted on him, and they were not likely to cross paths again. And yet, his face wouldn't leave her head. She found herself wishing he were going on to Lima with her, if only to reassure her that the debriefing wouldn't be a disaster.

She jumped as Gregorio slapped a hand on the roof of the cab and shouted something in Spanish. The truck ground to a stop, and Spalko smelled exhaust and burning rubber. Uneasily, she crept to the end of the truckbed and dropped to the ground, pulling her pistol out of her jacket pocket. This stretch of road was incredibly remote, and she had a strange feeling about their sudden stop. Moving quietly, she crouched down and clicked off the safety, then aimed her gun at the approaching vehicle.

The truck was unmarked, painted black and crowded with uniformed men. Spalko scanned their jackets for any kind of insignia or identifiable marking, but they wore only solid khaki. Before the vehicle had stopped completely, a shot rang out, shattering the windshield and sending a spray of glass over the road.

"Get down!" She heard a flurry of movement in the cab, and she hoped that the monks had taken cover under the seats. Her shout was followed by another volley of gunfire, and she dropped lower, peeking her head around the side of the truck. The machine guns looked familiar, and she clocked the closest soldier as carrying an AK-47, standard Soviet issue. She had no time to wonder at this before another round of bullets shredded the tarp above her head.

She managed to send a few shots towards the advancing soldiers, digging in her pockets for extra ammunition with her free hand. Something hot and sharp pierced her shoulder, and she felt blood soaking into her shirt. She didn't stop reloading, even when a second bullet grazed her temple. Just as she raised her arm to fire again, the soldiers surrounded her.

"Drop your weapon," someone behind her snapped, as a second person tackled her. She felt a knee against her back, and she struggled against the weight, keeping her fingers locked around the gun. She heard the first man scream at her to stay still or be shot dead, and the second bent her wrist backward until she finally let go of the weapon.

Irina felt the cold clasp of handcuffs on her wrists. "Now, come with us."

She realized with a shock of adrenaline that they were speaking Russian. Immediately, she relaxed and let the soldiers drag her to her feet.

Squinting through the rain of blood from her forehead, she quickly identified the highest-ranking officer, a tall man in a crisp tan jacket. "Comrade, there has been a mistake. I am Colonel-Doctor Irina Spalko of the Science and Technology Directorate-"

"I know who you are, ma'am." The man brushed sandy brown hair out of his eyes, visibly nervous. "I am just shocked to find you alive."

"Yes, the Akator mission was a failure, and I ended up in American custody. I need to speak to Colonel Kuznetsov."

"He is in Lima. We will take you there."

"Why did you attack my truck, Captain…?"

"…Stasevich. We have received reports of fascist guerrilla activity in this area. The local monks aid and abet these activities."

He gestured to the truck, where more soldiers were dragging the monks from the cab. The novice looked terrified, while Brother Gregorio pinched his lips into a thin line. The soldiers herded them in front of the hood, shouting in Russian.

"They will be executed."

"That is not necessary," Spalko replied firmly. Her shoulder was beginning to ache, and the cuffs were cutting off her circulation. "They assisted me after I escaped American custody."

"All the more reason to destroy them – they know things."

Both monks had their hands on their heads now, and Gregorio was muttering to himself in Spanish. Spalko read his lips: _"Dios te salve, Maria…"_

Irina stepped forward until she was nose and nose with Stasevich. Her eyes narrowed. "You will release them – now."

He shook his head blandly and waved at the men by the truck. They raised their rifles, and Spalko felt something cold wrap its fingers around her heart. She watched Brother Gregorio pull the younger man closer, still murmuring. _"Llena eres de gracia…"_

"—That is an order, Stasevich."

He clamped a hand on her good shoulder, digging in with a bruising grip. There was a pop as the guard fired, and then Brother Gregorio crumpled to the ground, silent. The body of the novice fell next, and Spalko dropped her eyes, speechless and seething. She hoped that Kuznetsov was prepared to hear her objections, because killing the monks who had sheltered she and Jones was a display of purposeless cruelty.

The air was heavy with the stench of blood and gunpowder, and when Stasevich reached out to uncuff her, she hardly noticed. Her hands moved to her pockets as she followed Stasevich to the Soviet transport, unable to shake the image of Gregorio slumping lifeless to the ground.


	11. Betrayal

The Soviet compound was small but heavily guarded, circled by three layers of razor wire and lit by floodlights. Spalko sat at a desk on the second floor, waiting for Kuznetsov, who obviously hadn't been prepared for her arrival. Smoothing her hair absently, she stared out the window, watching the night shift guards walk circles around the courtyard.

They had driven to Lima in silence, but Stasevich's medical officer had been kind enough to bandage her arm. It stung a little, but her range of movement was not seriously limited, and the wound to her forehead was little more than a scratch. She had commandeered a canteen and kerchief to wipe the blood from her face, and she looked reasonably presentable for her debriefing. She wished for a notebook to gather her thoughts but settled instead for a mental checklist.

Her preparations were interrupted by a knock at the door. Agent Kuznetsov stepped quietly inside, brushing his hands on his jacket. He was a head taller than Irina, with a stocky figure and graying auburn hair. When he approached the table, Spalko sprang up, hand rising in a salute.

"Good evening, Agent Kuznetsov."

"At ease," he said tersely, narrowing his dark eyes in her direction. He took a seat opposite hers, waving a hand to the door. Two uniformed guards appeared.

"Captain Fedorov and Captain Zorkin." Spalko nodded to the men as they stood silently at either side of the door. She had an uneasy feeling, but she pushed it aside, lacing her fingers on the table.

"I'm sure you have questions, Agent Kuznetsov."

"Reading my thoughts, are you? I never believed the rumors of your paranormal gifts." Underneath his jocular tone, something dark was lurking.

Spalko brushed aside the comment. "You would like to hear about Akator, yes?"

When met with a nod, she continued. "We entered a large structure, and we found thirteen skeletons arrayed in a circle. Their bones were made of a type of crystal, very similar to that of the skull recovered in Nazca. The floor was connected to a type of primitive motor, and as it began spinning, my men lost their footing. I felt dizzy, and I began to hallucinate that the bones were moving. At some point, I lost consciousness. I woke up under a pile of rubble, and some American Special Forces captured me."

Kuznetsov ran a hand over his moustache and commented, "Our anthropologists will doubtless want to hear more about the structure. For now, continue."

"I was taken to an American prison in Iquitos. I was tortured, but I told them nothing. Dr. Jones was also at the prison. He turned on his comrades and helped me escape."

"Why?"

Spalko shrugged. "We walked through the Amazon for weeks. We parted ways eventually, and I found transportation with two monks. Your men stopped us a few kilometers outside of Lima, executed the monks, and brought me here."

"Yes, they were instructed to monitor fascist militia activity in the area."

"These monks were not fascists. They assisted me when I was in need. I objected strongly to Stasevich's actions, but-"

"Stasevich did as I commanded." Kuznetsov cut her off with a glare. "Now, tell me about your time in American custody."

"I was taken in with six of my men. They killed them in front of me in an effort to get me to cooperate."

"What did they want to know?"

"They asked what I knew about experimental weapons development. Jones knew that we were investigating military applications of the skull, and he must have told them."

"But you told them nothing."

"Yes."

Kuznetsov wore a blank expression. Leaning back in his chair, he inquired, "Jones, he helped you escape?"

"He did. I already explained this."

"Where is he now?"

"Why do you want to know?" The question startled her, and she chose her words carefully.

"We have questions for him."

Her eyes went to the door, then the balcony behind them. She couldn't answer this question; she knew what Kuznetsov wanted, and she wouldn't supply it. If they took Jones into custody, he wouldn't emerge alive. Standing up, she slapped a palm on the table and pushed her chair back.

"This interview is over, Agent."

Kuznetsov simply folded his hands and smiled. "Ah, but Dr. Spalko. You would be doing the Union a great service. Don't you want to atone for your failure at Akator?"

"Yes, of course. But I cannot assist you in locating Jones."

His smile grew wider. "Do you know where I was assigned before I came to Peru?"

She gave him a bewildered look. "No, Agent Kuznetsov."

"Siberian Oblast. A work camp for traitors and enemies of the state. It is so cold there that your eyes freeze shut when you leave your shack-"

"Why do you tell me this?" she snapped, even as fear closed a cold hand around her chest.

"If you are unwilling to assist the Union in such a simple matter, it calls your loyalty into question."

Her scowl deepened, and she stepped back, slipping off her uniform jacket. She watched Kuznetsov take in the half-healed burn scars. "You know I am loyal."

"Prove it to us. Your duties as a servant of the Soviet Union are never complete."

She replaced her jacket and stared at the concrete floor under her boots. Why was she hesitating? Yes, Jones had assisted her. Yes, he had asked for nothing in return. And yet, this small betrayal was nothing in comparison to the greater welfare of the Soviet people. She opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat.

Kuznetsov watched her hesitate, and an expression of mocking patience slipped over his face. "You may have a few hours to make your decision. In the meantime, I will have my men search every inch of land from Lima to Goyllarisquizga-"

"-You will not find him," Spalko snapped.

Kuznetsov shrugged. "—Until he is located."

* * *

Sitting on the veranda with a blanket around his shoulders, Indy watched the sun emerge from behind the treeline. His muscles still ached from the effects of his illness, but he was gaining strength, and he estimated that he would be ready to resume his journey within the week. Brother Tiago guessed that the other monks would return from Lima soon, and Indy was eager to hear what had become of Spalko. She had mentioned a Soviet base in the city, but he felt uneasy about leaving her alone. The Americans, too, had a presence in Lima, and they would be looking for her.

Across the yard, Indy heard the clank of an anvil as the monks began their work. A long wisp of smoke trailed from the chimney of one of the outbuildings, and Brother Tiago stepped out of the doorway, brushing the wood splinters from his hands. Indy nodded in polite acknowledgement.

"Good morning, Brother," he shouted across the yard.

Tiago approached the veranda, furrowing his heavy brow. "Good morning, Henry. How are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you. I think-"

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the doorframe. A novice stepped outside, biting his lip. Before speaking, he ran a tanned hand over his head, gathering himself

"Brother!"

"What is it, child?"

"Señor Guaygua is here. He says that he saw our truck abandoned on the road to Lima. He stopped to look for Brother Gregorio and Juan Mateo, but no one was there." The boy spoke calmly, but Indy could see the fear on his face.

Brother Tiago put up a calming hand. "Tell Señor Guaygua to come in. I will see him."

Sensing something amiss, Indy stood and followed Tiago into the drawing room. Señor Guaygua sat on a plain wooden stool, dressed in sturdy work pants and an elaborately stitched poncho. He swung his keys uneasily between his fingers.

"Brother Tiago! I'm sorry to disturb you so early in the morning."

Tiago waved off his apology. "My novice tells me it is important."

"Perhaps. I was on my way to Lima this morning, and I saw your truck stopped beside the road. I found this strange, and so I stopped. No one was there, but the windshield was shattered, and there were bullet casings in the road-"

"—And no sign of Brother Gregorio or the others?"

"No, brother. Last night's rain swept away any footprints. It's a treacherous bit of road…perhaps they went off the cliff."

Indy shivered, the weight of unease increasing. Had Ross and Marino found them? Even if this were the case, what had happened to the monks? The Americans had no need to detain them, and if they had taken Spalko in, why hadn't they released Brother Gregorio? Would the monk tell Ross where Indy was hiding?

The other men were still conversing. "…You can borrow my vehicle, but there is nothing to see. Just a few bits of metal and the abandoned truck." Guaygua shrugged, twirling the keyring around his thumb.

Indy stepped forward quickly. "I'll go. Just let me retrieve my things."

"Henry, you are still recovering."

"My friend was with Brother Gregorio. I'm worried about her."

Señor Guaygua shrugged again and stood up. "I have space for two passengers."

* * *

The barracks were empty, and after flipping on the light, Spalko chose a bunk at random. Her arm ached, and exhaustion was dragging her towards sleep. Pulling off her combat boots and folding her jacket, she retrieved a blanket from a nearby shelf and collapsed onto the thin mattress. Above her head, the florescent lights hummed steadily.

Spalko knew she could not cooperate with Kuznetsov. Jones was of no use to the Soviet Union, and she would not betray him for the sake of a loyalty test. She had thought that her scars were proof enough, and the fact that her superior officer had demanded more brought up a cold anger. She had suffered because she _believed_ in the Union, because she was willing to die for the greater good. Spalko respected the chain of command, but Kuznetsov had to be mad to accuse her of disloyalty. She had received half a dozen medals and an appointment to the Science and Technology Directorate, and her work had been instrumental in creating scores of experimental weapons. Her whole life belonged to the Soviet Union, but she would not be the tool by which her allies were slaughtered.

She pulled the blanket over her head, watching light filter through the thin fabric. She only had a few hours before sunrise, when Kuznetsov would expect her decision. She remembered with dread his mention of the gulag. Her colleagues in the KGB escorted prisoners regularly, but as a scientist, she'd never seen one of the prison camps. Conditions in Siberia were rugged, and she'd heard whispered stories of starvation and backbreaking labor in freezing temperatures. Kuznetsov probably had the power to send her to such a place, but she hoped he would consider her years of service as a mitigating factor.

Tomorrow, Spalko resolved, she would do her best to conceal her irritation, and she would remind Kuznetsov of her record. Refusing his direct orders would likely end her career, but she forced down the anxiety brought on by this thought. Lying perfectly still, she concentrated on the smell of mothballs, the cold plastic of the mattress beneath her. Giving in to panic would do her no good, and so she marshalled her thoughts to order. Closing her eyes against the overhead lights, she fell asleep.

* * *

Spotting the crumpled husk of the truck, Señor Guaygua pulled to a stop. A heavy mist obscured the mountain face, and Indy struggled for footing in the ankle-deep mud. Behind him, Brother Tiago exited the car, lifting his cassock a few inches off the ground. The rain had indeed obscured any footprints, and the area was deserted.

The truck's windows were shattered, and the dirt around the cab sparkled with broken glass. Indy spotted small pockmarks in the metal of the hood, and he crouched to inspect them more closely.

"Bullet holes?" Brother Tiago furrowed his brow, obviously uneasy with this discovery.

"Yes. High-caliber…perhaps an automatic weapon."

" _Mira!_ " Señor Guaygua shouted from across the road, pointing at something on the ground. Bending, he picked up a shell, half-buried in the mud. "I think someone ambushed them."

Indy shared a glance with Brother Tiago. The absence of bodies suggested that the three had escaped alive, but something about the scene sent a shiver down Indy's spine.

"There is nothing here. We should return to the monastery," Brother Tiago declared, breaking the silence.

Indy nodded, thoughts stirring. Sitting in the cab of Señor Guaygua's vehicle, he tried to work through the possibilities. Perhaps the Americans had apprehended them and taken Spalko into custody. Perhaps all three had been picked up by the Russians. Perhaps they had been killed by a third party, and their bodies moved. The scene indicated a struggle, but he wasn't sure what to make of the bullet holes or the casing. He was concerned for Brother Gregorio and the novice, but anxiety over Spalko's fate caused his chest to seize. He hoped that the monks would return in the next few days and bring with them information about what had befallen Spalko.

As they came near the monastery, Indy spotted a dark plume of smoke rising above the trees. An acrid smell was in the air, and he buried his nose in his sleeve, trying to draw a clear breath. Señor Guaygua steered them onto the long road leading to the building, and Brother Gregorio flung an arm out, causing Guaygua to press the brakes.

As the car jerked to a stop, they stared forward in silence. The monastery was on fire.


	12. Pull Down the Mountain

Spalko spent an uncomfortable night in the barracks, restless and mulling over Kuznetsov's threat to search for Jones. She had resolved not to cooperate with his interrogation, but it would be easy enough to trace the monks back to the Franciscan monastery and realize that Jones was still recuperating there. Kuznetsov was cruel and dismissive, but he wasn't stupid. The thought of Jones being apprehended while ill and unable to defend himself terrified Spalko.

Refusing orders was one thing, however, and acting directly against the interests of the Kremlin was another. A few weeks ago, she would never have considered it. Defending her motherland was her raison d'être, and death was preferable to treason. But watching Kuznetsov's callous disregard for life and blatant disrespect of her military record, Spalko questioned if she was obligated to follow his lead. His actions were ugly and irresponsible, and rejecting them was not turning her back on the Soviet ideal. If Kuznetsov was a broken cog, Spalko still believed in the larger machine.

Before a smudge of orange appeared in the east, she stood up and folded her blanket, straightening her clothes and replacing her boots. Warning Jones would be an act of sedition that the Union would never forgive, even if it were possible to reach the monastery ahead of Kuznetsov. Still, as she washed her face and smoothed her hair in the cracked washbasin mirror, Spalko began to puzzle out the logistics. She would need weapons, transportation, a fresh uniform to avoid rousing the suspicion of the gate guards. She would need to leave before Kuznetsov came to summon her and find the time to hotwire a vehicle. Again, the image of Jones, lying pale and weak in the monastery sickroom, flickered through her mind, and the task seemed suddenly more possible.

Once this was over, she wouldn't try to flee. Spalko knew her insubordination would be punished harshly, and she would accept whatever penalty was dealt to her. Pushing Siberia out of her thoughts, she quietly left the barracks and proceeded to the laundry. The room was empty, but a stack of clean fatigues waited on the table. It took less than a minute to change clothes, and then she was off to the garage.

Two guards waited outside the doors, squinting in the predawn dimness. Spalko nodded crisply, and they saluted her.

"Dr. Spalko, what brings you here?" The younger man reached for his keys.

"That is classified. I am leaving – Colonel Kuznetsov said that I would have access to a truck."

"Of course, Colonel-Doctor."

They hauled the heavy door upwards, and Spalko wasted no time in marching towards the nearest truck. As she slid into the driver's seat, she found the keys in the ignition. Before she could slam the door, the guard came running, waving a clipboard.

"Documentation, Colonel-Doctor."

She dismissed him firmly. "No documentation. I already told you that this trip is classified."

The man relented under her stony gaze. "Of course, ma'am."

A thought struck her, and she almost smiled. "Radio the gate guards immediately. Tell them not to stop this truck, on the orders of Colonel Kuznetsov."

"It will be done."

Without another word, she shifted into gear and sped towards the gate. The soldiers had already dragged the barrier aside, and they stood at attention as she pulled onto the road. With any luck, Kuznetsov wouldn't notice her absence until she was halfway to the monastery.

* * *

As Spalko drew closer to the monastery, she noticed a haze of smoke in the air. She glanced at the hood of her truck with brief concern, but nothing was amiss. The trip had been bumpy, and the rough roads and steep drop-offs had cost her time. Her wounded arm was beginning to ache, and she kept one hand on the steering wheel, focusing on the road ahead.

The road forked ahead, and Spalko turned onto the narrow dirt track leading to the monastery. It was well past sunup, but a flickering yellow light illuminated the horizon. As she drew closer, she realized with horror that the entire monastery was ablaze, the edifice black and crumbling. Columns of flame shot towards the sky, and a light rain of ash stuck to her windshield. Spalko realized with horror that Kuznetsov's men had reached the monastery ahead of her. Had Jones managed to escape before the fire spread? Was he now in Soviet custody?

Braking abruptly and tearing the keys out of the ignition, Spalko rummaged through the back of the truck until she found a loaded Kalashnikov. She threw it over her shoulder and slunk towards the treeline, where the shadows would obscure her from view. Covering her mouth with her sleeve, she crept towards the light of the fire, listening intently. She passed an abandoned truck about halfway to the house, and she made note of fresh tank treads in the mud. Ahead, she could hear shouts in Russian.

Pausing at the edge of the trees, she spotted Captain Stasevich and a scattering of footsoldiers standing in the yard. A body was lying in the doorway, and two more were slumped in the grass. Irina recognized the brown cotton cassocks of the monks, and she grimaced. Finally, her gaze landed on three kneeling men, bound and held at gunpoint. The first was Brother Tiago, still alive but bleeding heavily from a gash in his scalp. The second, Spalko did not recognize, and the third was Jones.

Spalko raised her rifle to her shoulder, as a chill swept her body. The men were heavily armed, and although Spalko was an excellent fighter, she would be dead in seconds. Instead, she scanned the scene before her, looking for inspiration. If she could trick the men into directing their gazes elsewhere, Jones and the others could have the chance to slip away.

Thinking quickly, her eyes landed on a large tank of gasoline, stored perilously close to the burning building. The tank would explode eventually, but she could probably speed the process by blowing a few holes through the metal.

Squinting through the scope, she sighted the edge of the tank and braced herself. She hit the side of the container with her round, and the sound caused the soldiers to pivot in surprise. As they scanned the yard in shock, the tank began spilling gasoline towards the fire. Oblivious to the impending explosion, the men walked cautiously towards the edge of the forest, weapons drawn. Spalko hit the ground as a deafening explosion shook the air. She felt the heat rush over her back, and she could smell her own hair begin to burn. The fire roared, and there were shouts of alarm and pain from the arrayed men. Spalko counted to three, then raised her head and cautiously got to her feet.

Jones and his companions were gone. Several of the soldiers had regained their footing, while a few more were still down, nursing injuries from the blast. It seemed that no one was dead, and Spalko was grateful. She hadn't wanted to kill or maim her own countrymen, only to create a diversion. After a moment, she heard Kuznetsov shout:

"Jones is gone! I want him recaptured immediately."

Shoulders slumping in relief, Spalko unslung her Kalashnikov and stepped out of the shadows. She watched Stasevich notice her presence, and his eyes lit with fury.

"Dr. Spalko! What-"

She dropped the rifle and preemptively got to her knees, tucking her palms behind her head. "I surrender, Captain Stasevich."

Before she could say anything more, something slammed into her back, and she found herself on the ground. The air was choked with gasoline and ash, and small fires flickered in the grass around them. She felt cold steel against the back of her head, and she stayed still, concentrating on her success. The thought of Jones alive almost distracted her from the terror of the gulag. Already, she could feel the freezing wind and gnawing hunger, and a wave of nausea swept her.

Stasevich's voice interrupted her thoughts. "I hope you enjoy the cold, Comrade-Colonel."

* * *

 _Spalko had betrayed him_. As Indy ran breakneck through the forest, clutching a stolen rifle, this thought echoed through his mind. Only seconds after the trio had discovered the monastery burning, their vehicle had been ambushed by a company of Soviet soldiers. They had dragged the three men from the truck and marched them to the large yard in front of the building. Señor Guaygua and Brother Tiago had looked terrified, but Indy had been filled with a cold anger.

Spalko had departed for Lima, and only a day later, the Soviets had turned up. Despite his best efforts, his mind began to connect the dots. He didn't want to believe that Spalko had turned him in, but she was fiercely loyal to the Union. They had come to respect each other over the past weeks, but their bond could not compete with her belief in the Soviet cause.

His deliberations had been interrupted by a loud explosion, as the flames finally reached the fuel tank, stored only a few meters from the porch. In the intervening chaos, Indy had snatched a weapon from an incapacitated soldier and slipped away into the forest, faintly singed but still able to run. Now, he was traveling north, aiming for Goyllarisquizga and the riverboats. He had a connection in Brazil, and if he could make it over the border, catching a flight to Leipzig or Shanghai would be easier. Besides a half-filled canteen and the pilfered rifle, Indy carried little else. He would need to be strategic if he wanted to make it to his destination.

After an hour, Indy cautiously slowed his pace. He was still weak from his bout of malaria, and his lungs were burning. The sky was overcast, and the trees cast long shadows. Here in the cloud forest, the air was relatively thin, and the soil was rocky. Indy hoped that Brother Tiago and Señor Guaygua had been released by the Soviets, and he felt slightly guilty for leaving them behind. The explosion hadn't been powerful enough to kill anyone, but he couldn't imagine that the Russians were happy. Perhaps they would allocate all resources to searching for Indy and keeping prisoners would be low on their agenda.

Indy stopped to take a sip of water, staring up at the canopy of leaves. He felt anger welling in his chest, and he let it build. Better anger than the pain of betrayal. Spalko was his enemy. She had involved him in her plot to track down the skull, she had spent her life plotting the destruction of his country, and she was ultimately responsible for the deaths of Marion and his son. In retrospect, believing otherwise had been ridiculous. He should have left her in prison and found another way to punish Ross and Marino. Despite his best efforts, the spark of anger fizzled to nothing, and he only felt tired and cold.

Before leaving the continent, perhaps he would hike out to the Paramillo Massif and find the crash site. Indy wasn't a religious person, but he supposed he could give the bodies a proper burial. He owed Marion and his son this much, at least. He would need supplies, a chartered plane, and digging equipment, but his associate in Rio Branco would be happy to provide these. The man was also an archeologist, and he had been with Indy during his first attempt to locate Akator. He'd since made a fortune investing in rubber production, and he had money enough to spare for a friend.

Thus decided, Indy pushed Spalko and the whole mess out of his mind. He would make his way to Goyllarisquizga, charter transportation to Rio Branco, and begin planning a trip to the mountains. After taking care of his obligations, he would head to Europe or China, putting distance between himself and his legal entanglements. With grim determination, Indy shoved his canteen back into its pocket, and continued through the trees.

* * *

 _Colombia, One Month Later_

* * *

A few kilometers above the treeline, Indy finally spotted the crash site. The soil was loose and gravelly, held in place by a carpet of scrubgrass and gray-green lichen. As he approached the blackened skeleton of the plane, he could see bits of debris scattered in the dirt. The metal was twisted and unrecognizable, and the ground was scorched near the impact zone. Cautiously circling the wreckage, Indy felt his stomach drop.

The interior of the aircraft was ash, and his chances of recovering any remains were slim. Still, he kicked through the wreckage until he was satisfied. His eyes were hot and stinging, and he threw aside a loose piece of glass, a bit harder than necessary. Turning away, his eye caught a small mound at the base of the hillside, marked with a makeshift cross. Indy remembered that the pilot had survived the conflagration, and he wondered if the man was responsible for the burial.

Marion hadn't deserved this ending. Even now, her memory drew him like a moth to a flame. She was headstrong, capable, and she could drink him under the table. He had been infatuated, and when the shine wore off of their relationship, he had walked out. He would never forgive himself for that. They had conceived a son, and Indy had barely become acquainted with him before the disaster. Indy wasn't naïve enough to think that they could have been a happy family, but he had hoped to make peace with Marion. Dropping to the ground, Indy held his head in his hands, blinking hard.

He had brought a bunch of flowers to lay at the crash site, and he rummaged with one hand through his satchel, extracting the bundle. Still kneeling, he arranged them beside the marker. An image of Marion, angry and gesturing in the firelight, crossed his mind's eye. When they'd met again, she had been wearing a dirty linen suit, and her hair had been loose and shiny around her shoulders. Despite the years, she had still carried that bright and indomitable energy. With heaviness, he remembered the words she'd spat at him, pinning him back with the power of her rage. _Are you still leaving a trail of human wreckage, or have you retired?_

Staring at the twisted metal and ash of the crash site, he supposed he was. Tugging off his fedora, he crumpled it in his hand, watching the wind tear petals from the ragged bouquet.

* * *

End of Part I


	13. Hit the Earth

**CW: This chapter discusses the Soviet gulag system, which is quite a dark topic. Also, I know that the gulags were largely dissolved in the early 1950s, but I'm bending the timeline for the sake of the story. I'm an amateur writer, not a historian. As always, feel free to make corrections.**

* * *

They found him in Xi'an. After several months of travel through China, and a brief stay with a friend in Macau, Indy had found work excavating a necropolis in rural Shaanxi province. The job was tiring, and his grasp of Mandarin was poor, but his wages were enough for a modest apartment in the city center. Most importantly, he had bought himself time to consider the future. Indy still hoped that the matter with Ross would resolve itself, but until then, he was grateful to be self-reliant.

As a dust storm raged outside, blotting out the light of the setting sun, Indy poured himself a glass of _baijiu_. The apartment was small, and his desk doubled as a table. He had spread a red and blue embroidered tablecloth across the surface, purchased from one of the street sellers in the textile district of Xi'an. The desk chair creaked under his weight, and he heard the tap of footsteps in the hall. Gulping down the contents of the glass, he stood up and went to the door. Through the peephole, he noticed a blur of movement.

"Open up!"

The English words startled Indy, and he tossed his glass down on the table, fumbling for his knife. He leapt back as the door exploded off its hinges, tossing bits of wood into the air. There was no time to flee to the window or draw his weapon. A second later, three bodies crowded into the entryway.

"Dr. Jones?"

"Yes," he snapped, brushing splinters from his clothes. "You made quite an entrance."

"We are here on behalf or the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You'd best come with us."

The three barrels staring him down brooked no argument. Sighing, Indy motioned for them to lower the guns. "Fine. Just let me fetch my coat."

* * *

It was nearing midnight, and Spalko was still at work in the makeshift laboratory, penciling faint notations onto a piece of graph paper. Her fingers were healing after being broken repeatedly under interrogation, but holding a pencil still took effort. Across the room, two other convicts were working silently, but she avoided eye contact. They'd been working together for nearly two months, improving upon the pulley system that dredged uranium ore from the mines, but she didn't know their names. Spalko had quickly learned that her survival depended on working productively enough to earn her rations, and this left no time for socializing.

Chistilishche Labor Camp was a hellish place. Spalko had survived weeks of beatings from her interrogators, only to receive a sentence of ten years' hard labor. She had accepted it without protest; after all, she was guilty of insubordination, and the circumstances of her treachery did not seem to matter to the KGB. She had kept herself alive through the train journey to Chistilishche, crossing the Urals and much of Siberia before arriving in the Far East. As a scientist, she had been spared the deadly work of mining uranium, and now she spent eighteen hours a day checking blueprints with other educated prisoners.

Despite her exhaustion, Spalko completed her tasks with exactitude and pride of accomplishment. She had betrayed the Union, yes, but her entire being remained dedicated to the Soviet cause. Kuznetsov and Stasevich were anomalies, and she had been unlucky enough to fall under their command. In time, perhaps her superiors would again see her value. And until then, she would keep her head down and survive.

A guard stood smoking beside the door, heavy steel baton strapped to his belt. Raising his chin and taking a drag from his cigarette, he motioned for them to line up. "Return to your barracks."

Falling silently into line, Spalko braced herself for the freezing walk to the women's bunkhouse. Her shoes were falling apart, and she tied her scarf over her face, hands stiff and cold. Still, as she followed the guard into the floodlit yard, the cold and wind took her breath away. Tall drifts of snow had settled against the fence, and the watchtowers shone with ice. Wading through the snow slowed her pace considerably, but when she fell behind, a second guard approached.

"Hurry up."

She felt a blow to her shoulder, and she stumbled, cold water soaking into her ragged fatigues. Before the man could strike again, she pushed to her feet and continued, wincing at the tenderness in her arm. When they finally reached the barracks, she stomped the snow from her boots and stepped inside, feeling her way to the bunk nearest the wall.

Around her, she could hear the quiet rustling of the mine workers, who usually reached the bunkhouse first. Keeping her boots and coat, she curled up on the wooden platform and closed her eyes, shutting out the nightmare world around her. Once her mind was sufficiently empty, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

Indy had to admit, they'd treated him well. He'd spent the past three weeks in a cell, and his days had been filled with endless questions from Ross. The food was plentiful but cold and tasteless, and he got a little sunlight from the barred window near the ceiling. He knew he was back in the States, but beyond that, information was minimal. There had been no torture or rough treatment, but Indy was still anxious to go home. He'd readily admitted to helping Spalko break out of prison, explained his reasoning, and waited for his sentence. He had no idea what kind of game Ross was playing by stalling, and Indy wanted to get his prison time over with. He had neither seen nor asked for a lawyer; his tentative questions about the proceedings of his case had been met with cold stares.

Now, finally, Indy hoped for answers. Ross, strangely formal, had requested his presence in his office. Indy sat across from his former friend, leaning his elbows on the flimsy card table. The beginnings of a migraine pressed behind his eyes, and he squinted, preparing to speak.

"What's going on?"

Ross smoothed a hand over his cropped hair. "Indy, I want to offer you a deal."

"Deal?" Jones laced his fingers together, leaning forward.

"Yes. If you complete this task for us, we will waive your charges."

Indy stared at Ross, considering. Part of him wanted to spring out of the chair and agree immediately, but prudence told him to wait. "Tell me about this task."

"Spalko, your former co-conspirator, is now in KGB custody. They were displeased with her failure at Akator."

The sound of her name brought the old anger bubbling up, and he scowled. "And?"

"…And, we are developing an experimental weapon. You don't need to know the details, but the assembly is much too dangerous for any American scientist."

"Why Spalko, specifically? She's untrustworthy, and besides, she's currently in Russia, right?"

"The weapon uses materials gathered at Akator. We may need to make a return trip, and she knows the site."

Indy nodded grudgingly. "How do you plan to bring her here?"

"Our sources tell us she is currently an inmate at Chistilishche Labor Camp in the Soviet Far East. The taiga is inhospitable, and any escapees die or return within days. Because of this, the perimeter is not well-guarded-"

"—and that's where I come in."

"Yes, Dr. Jones. We will give you supplies, personnel, and specific instructions."

Indy stared at the wall, the pain of betrayal heavy in his chest. He had no desire to work with Spalko again and helping Ross would necessitate this. He had been foolish to trust her, and even more foolish to involve himself in her illegal activities. And yet, the prospect of being free of Ross and Marino forever was tantalizing. After helping them locate Spalko, he could return to his house and teaching position in Connecticut. He would again be the esteemed anthropologist and treasure hunter, respected by his colleagues and revered by his students. Marion's death still cut like a knife, but a return to normalcy would do him good.

Gritting his teeth, Indy offered his hand to Ross. "Just tell me what I need to do."

* * *

Spalko stood outside the laboratory building, squinting in the predawn gloom. The cold needled her skin, and she waited impatiently for the guard to unlock the door. Inside, someone had already flipped the lights, and she noticed shadows moving against the curtains. A tingle of apprehension ran down her spine, and she balled her fists inside her pockets, glancing around warily.

The door opened with a click, and the man waved the line of prisoners through the door, eyeing them silently. As Irina reached the end of the corridor, she noticed that the laboratory had been thoroughly sacked, with tables overturned and equipment in disarray. The floor was littered with loose paper, and shards of broken glass surrounded the shattered cupboards. A second guard knelt beside the filing cabinet, tossing handfuls of paper in the air. Amidst the chaos, a third man stood at the center of the room, gripping a heavy baton.

"Prisoners! Line up with your hands against the wall."

Spalko complied quietly, but her thoughts were racing. The wall was chilly against her fingertips, and in her peripheral vision, she noted that the man next to her was shaking like a leaf. She kept still while the guards searched and cuffed her, silently gathering information. When she was finally permitted to turn around, she noticed that the men had concluded their ransacking of the laboratory.

"It has come to our attention-" the third guard tapped the baton against his palm "—that an entire box of matches has gone missing from the supply closet. Which of you took them?"

Silence fell. His expression darkened, and he swung the baton back to his side. "Speak!"

"Not me, sir." The first man to speak was bald-headed and gaunt, wrapped in a blue quilted overcoat. In quick succession, the rest of the line echoed his words.

"Well, get someone to search the barracks." The guard, red faced and out of breath, snapped his fingers at his subordinate. The man saluted and left.

A young prisoner stepped forward, breaking the short silence. He cleared his throat. "Sir, I don't believe we had a full box of matches. Our inventory is recorded in the ledger-"

His remark was interrupted with a crack, as the guard swung his baton into his jaw. The young man fell to his knees, blood dripping onto his coveralls. The guard struck again, and this time the man was laid flat, whimpering in pain. After a final kick to the ribs, the guard stepped away.

"Would anyone else like to argue?" After a moment, he continued. "All of you are sentenced to ten days in solitary."

Solitary confinement was a fearsome prospect. The cells, called _odinochki_ , were tiny, unheated, and mostly unfurnished, with only a bucket and wooden sleeping platform. Rations were minimal at best, and Spalko had seen sheet-draped bodies taken by stretcher from the prison building. A burst of adrenaline gave her the strength to speak.

"I have done nothing wrong."

The guard stopped pacing, eyes boring into Spalko. She lifted her chin, suddenly angry.

"What did you say?" He asked, voice low.

"I object to this sentence, as I have broken no rules-"

She anticipated the blow, but it still knocked her to the ground. Blood was pouring from her left temple, and there was a flash of light behind her eyes. The second swing caught her ribs, and the third cracked across her shoulderblades. Crying out felt like defeat, and so she remained silent, curling her body inwards. The cuffs kept her from protecting her head, and she felt another strike to her nose and chin. The scene was rushing away from her, and she felt something dark and soft clouding her vision. The voices and lights grew ever further away, and then she was gone.

* * *

When Spalko regained consciousness, the first thing she noticed was the smell of damp and decay. Something rough was pressing her cheek, and the only sound was the steady drip of water and howling of wind outside. Her vision was blurry, and one eye was swollen shut, but she caught a glimpse of a concrete ceiling and heavy wooden door. She supposed she was in an _odinochka_.

Despair settled over her like a heavy blanket. She had been unwise to argue with the guard; despite the blows she had endured, the end result was still solitary confinement. He had treated her with the same contempt as every other prisoner. A feeling of acute injustice had been simmering below the surface for as long as Spalko had been confined to the labor camp. She had dedicated her life to serving her motherland, receiving dozens of accolades and recognition from the highest ranks of Soviet leadership. She had fought in the Great Patriotic War, developed weapons that rivaled those of the Americans, and spent thousands of hours on Kremlin-sanctioned research. Now, she was only a cog in the great machine of the Soviet gulag.

On so many occasions, she had chosen to trust the judgment of her superiors, only to find herself defending the indefensible. The Red Army, and later the KGB, had provided her an escape from poverty and ignorance. She had been an uneducated village girl, but the Soviet Union had let her talents speak for themselves. She had been proud to fight for a country which judged her on her merits, and she had been willing to endure torture and death for the sake of her motherland.

The gulag was showing her a second side of the Soviet Union, one steeped in violence and brutal repression. Was this what she had been defending? Lying in her own dried blood, wheezing through a broken nose, Spalko felt disoriented. Without warning, Jones appeared in her head. She wondered dully if he knew what had happened to her. What would he think of her current situation? Jones had also been a patriot, but he hadn't revered the United States with the fervor she had the Soviet Union. His actions had been guided by his own moral compass, and he hadn't hesitated to betray his country for the sake of avenging his friends.

Fixing his face in her mind, she squeezed her eye shut, blocking out the pain and cold. The guard had said ten days, and she supposed that she should try to rest. Dwelling on her troubles wouldn't make time pass more quickly, and it would only weaken her resolve to survive. Pulling her coat over her face, she let her thoughts take her away from her grim surroundings.


	14. Siberia

Indy squinted down at a topographic map of Eastern Siberia, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. Ross had offered his office for the purposes of planning their mission, and he sat quietly behind the desk, waiting for Indy to speak. According to Ross, the labor camp was about twenty miles north of Suntar, a tiny settlement in the Yakut ASSR. The terrain was flat and windswept, the temperatures well below freezing. Indy pushed the map away and picked up the packet of documents at the other end of the table.

"Not exactly a vacation spot, is it?"

Ross didn't respond, but he picked up the map and began rerolling it for storage. Indy spread the papers over the desk.

"We'll depart from Alaska?"

"Yes. My pilot is very good – he can land a bushplane anywhere."

Indy considered this, and replied, "We'll want to fly below radar, so we should wait for good weather."

He silently scanned the pages, feeling a spark of excitement despite himself. Prison was unbearably tedious, and he was eager for adventure. The plan was to land the plane at Suntar, where Ross believed they could hire a local Yakut guide. The man would show them to the labor camp and wait out of sight. Then, Indy would stroll into Chistilishche and look for officials to bribe. Ross probably had the ability to organize an extraction without being detected, but simple bribery was more efficient. Corruption was endemic to the Soviet Union, and he had access to a vast budget.

After they picked up Spalko, they would return to the plane and fly to Alaska, where Ross would be waiting. Ross had made vague noises about wanting Indy to come along to Akator, but they hadn't negotiated the details. Still smarting from the betrayal, Indy wanted to spend as little time with Spalko as possible. Redirecting his attention to the mission, he shoved the memories into a dark corner of his mind.

"When do we depart?"

"Tomorrow's forecast is favorable."

"Is that enough time to arrange everything?"

Ross rested a hand on his chin, and he stared at Indy thoughtfully. "It's a time-sensitive matter. Tomorrow will have to do."

* * *

Spalko stretched out on the narrow wooden platform, squinting in the semidarkness. The cell block was eerily quiet, and she could hear the distant tap of footsteps above her head. Inside the _odinochka_ , the air was stale and cold, and the room seemed smaller with each passing day. Her head had stopped bleeding, but a fierce headache had taken root behind her eyes, and she was too weak to stand. The beating had certainly cracked a few ribs, and she couldn't move her shoulders. It took great effort to move between the pallet, the bucket, and the cell door, where a guard placed a cup of freezing water twice a day. She hadn't received rations since landing in isolation three days before, but hunger was the least of her concerns.

When the ten days were completed, she would be expected to return to her work assignment. Spalko doubted she could stand long enough to complete her tasks in the laboratory, but she knew that there would be no mercy. The guards had no qualms about denying food to unproductive workers, and she had seen other prisoners starve to death over ration cuts. She had been using her time in the _odinochka_ to rest as much as possible, but concussions and broken bones took time to heal – time that she lacked.

Spalko occupied her mind by recalling details of the mission to Akator, trying to identify what had gone wrong. She had told the story countless times while in KGB custody, but some pieces of the puzzle would not fit. She had gathered her men and entered the throne room, replacing the skull as the legend stipulated. The pressure had activated some kind of primitive motor, and many of her men had been thrown off balance, falling to their deaths from the edge of the platform. Spalko had kept her footing as the dais spun faster, creating the illusion that the skeletons were merging into one entity.

She had then been plagued by bizarre hallucinations and a feeling that her brain matter was aflame. She had seen the skeleton _grow skin_ , narrow its eyes, and raise an accusatory finger. After that, she had regained consciousness under a pile of rubble, dusty but unharmed. The whole episode had been incomprehensibly strange, and she had struggled to summarize it accurately in her report. Even now, she sometimes dreamed of the Being and its eyes of fire, the searing pain in her skull as she stumbled into unconsciousness.

Like a film, she played each scene over in her head, hoping to impose some kind of order. If she occupied herself with thoughts of her former glory, she wouldn't have to acknowledge her current status as a gulag laborer. Life at Chistilishche was grim, and she sometimes wondered if it would be better to escape, either by suicide or by taking her chances with the inhospitable taiga outside the fence. She knew there was a village just south of the camp, but it would take days to reach on foot. Even with proper gear, the walk would likely end in hypothermia.

Gritting her teeth in frustration, Spalko heard the faint shouts of workers in the courtyard. It was easy enough to keep time by listening to the noises outside, and she estimated that it was nearly dusk. Shifting onto her side, she let the motion ease pressure on her bruised back. A thin beam of light shone from under the door, and she watched dust particles float in the dimness.

Pushing aside her helpless irritation, she dutifully began reciting the events of the Akator mission, focusing on details she might've forgotten in the last retelling. _After holstering my radio, I directed my men to enter the throne room…_

* * *

Indy stood waiting on the tarmac, bundled against the biting Aleutian wind. The evening was cold and misty, and a fresh blanket of snow covered the mountains in the distance. Adak Island was small and rugged, but it did boast an airport and a bustling Naval base. Most importantly, it would serve as the departure point for their flight to Siberia. They had decided to fly at night, in order to better avoid detection, and the sun was beginning to disappear into the sea.

Ross, equally fortified against the weather, stood with his hands in his pockets. The pilot, who would double as a Russian translator, was tossing crates of supplies into the cargo hold, scarf blowing in the wind. Sliding the last piece of luggage into place, he slammed the door shut and jumped down to the pavement. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he approached.

"All ready, sir." The man spoke with no trace of an accent. His eyes were dark and shiny, and his auburn hair was clipped short. He was a head taller than Indy, but his slim build made Indy wonder if he'd be any use in a fight.

Nodding brusquely, Indy extended his hand. "Dr. Henry Jones. And you are?"

"You can call me Danil."

"Pleasure," Indy responded, dropping the handshake.

Ross stepped back. "Jones, I will be waiting at the base. I estimate that it will take two days to retrieve Spalko and return. Do not tarry."

"Of course not." Indy was growing tired of standing on the runway, and he stepped towards the waiting bushplane.

Climbing into the cargo hold, Indy settled among the boxes. Ross had sent cold-weather gear, medical supplies, and food and water. More interestingly, he had included a snowmobile for the trip to Chistilishche. The equipment was heavy, and Indy wondered if it would impede the function of the airplane. That question was answered when the whirring of the engine picked up, and Indy felt the craft move.

As the bushplane climbed higher, Indy pulled out the dossier Ross had given him. Slipping off his gloves, he flipped to the page that described the labor camp. The cargo hold was noisy, but he soon became immersed in reading. Ross had meticulously laid out the process of bribing the guards, springing Spalko from the facility, and returning to base. He had no doubt that something would go wrong, but Indy welcomed the challenge. He had felt empty since the events in Peru, and having a mission soothed something deep inside.

* * *

Suntar was a cluster of ice-covered cabins, wind-whipped and half buried in snow. In the distance was the frozen Vilyuy river, barely distinguishable from the surrounding tundra. The ground was pocked with hoofprints from the cattle kept by Yakut locals, and the settlement was ringed by scrubby clumps of pine and larch. It was barely dawn, but rings of smoke rose from the chimney of the nearest shack. Danil pointed enthusiastically.

"We'll start there."

Indy followed Danil to the door, brushing the snow from his clothes. He stepped back as the other man knocked.

" _Privyet!"_ The door opened under his hand. Under the awning, a dark-haired woman stood in house slippers, eyeing them curiously.

Stepping forward, Danil offered a wide smile and began speaking in rapid-fire Russian. After a moment, the woman stepped aside and nodded for them to come in.

Inside, a graying man in a green quilted coat knelt by the fire. Strips of meat were drying on the hearth, and the man fished a kettle from the coals while the woman gathered cups. The space was cozy and decorated in the Yakut style, with embroidered tapestries and furs displayed on the wall. Indy kept his expression polite as the woman gestured for them to sit.

Danil turned to Indy. "I will ask them about hiring a guide."

As Indy sipped tea and followed along with his rudimentary Russian, Danil made the request. He waved his hands animatedly, tapping the man on the shoulder every so often. The woman interjected occasionally, silencing them with a quirk of her brow.

Finally, Danil slapped his palms on the floor and smiled. He shook hands with the man, and remarked to Indy, "Ayaal has agreed to take us to the labor camp."

After a final cup of tea, Ayaal strapped on a pair of woven snowshoes and ushered them out of the cabin. Danil handed an envelope of rubles to the woman, who tucked it into the cupboard. A light snow was falling as they walked back to the snowmobile, parked under a copse of trees at the edge of the settlement. Ayaal estimated that it would take two hours to reach Chistilishche; if they completed their task quickly, they could return to the village before dusk.

The snowmobile was an older model, with room inside for four passengers. Danil offered their guide the pilot's seat, and he and Indy took their places in the back. The weather had cleared a bit, and early morning sunlight bounced off the snow-covered tundra. Indy shielded his eyes against the brightness, rummaging in his pack for the map.

Ayaal shouted something over the roar of the engine, and Danil translated. "He says that the map is not needed. He knows where to go."

Indy sat back and nodded. Ayaal continued to barrel through the snow, bringing them ever closer to Chistilishche and Spalko.


	15. The Reunion

Indy and Danil approached the gate on foot, moving slowly and keeping their hands visible. A series of watchtowers ringed the prison complex, interspersed with razor wire. No doubt a dozen rifles were currently pointed in their direction, but from the ground, Indy saw only the glint of sunlight on metal. Beside the gate was a guard shack, gray and weathered from the harsh climate. Danil pointed.

"We will ask there."

As they approached the gate, four men in ragged Soviet uniforms exited the shack, armed to the teeth. One man leveled a Kalashnikov as they came to a stop, while another put up a palm.

" _Prasteete_!"

Indy froze in place, hands on his head, as Danil spoke. "Good morning, comrade! We need to speak with the commandant about an urgent matter."

The man with the Kalashnikov scoffed, glancing at the others. "The commandant is a busy man. I will not disturb him."

"You will be well-rewarded."

Indy had managed to follow the conversation to this point, and he recognized his cue. Slowly, he slid a hand into his coat pocket and extracted a stack of bills. He lifted them in the air, glancing at the soldiers to ensure they noticed the offering.

The soldier nearest the shack slapped a button, and the gate slid aside. The men bundled them into the guard shack, slamming the door behind them.

In the semidarkness, Danil took the bills from Indy and separated them into four piles. His fingers were stiff with cold, but he worked quickly and silently, mindful of the four sets of eyes upon him. As Danil passed out the bribe money, Indy watched the body language of the men change.

"It's not nearly enough!" The guard who had slapped the button complained, garnering nods from his companions.

Indy glanced at Danil, who scowled. "This is our offer. Take it or leave it."

"…And what is to prevent us from taking everything and killing you both?" The man who spoke was short and brutish, with faded blonde hair hanging over his forehead.

"Our friend is waiting nearby. If you harm us, he will tell your boss that we came to bribe you and you accepted."

The short man raised a fist, but his associate shoved him aside. "We will take the money. The commandant is in his office – we will show you the way."

* * *

After a tense walk through the camp courtyard, the guards ushered them into a squat concrete building. Most of the population seemed to be away in the uranium mines, and all was quiet as they stepped into a short hallway. A few feet away, light spilled from under a heavy door. The man with the Kalashnikov approached hesitantly, then knocked.

"Comrade Colonel, you have visitors."

The commandant's office was opulent compared to the rest of the prison, with carpeted floors and a polished mahogany desk. A curtained window occupied one wall, while the other contained a gun rack, fully stocked with hunting rifles. The air was warmer here, and the commandant, who was middle-aged and balding, wore only a light jacket. Meeting them with curious eyes, he gestured for them to come in.

"I was not expecting guests. What is your business here?"

As Indy settled into a carved wooden chair, Danil launched into the explanation they had prepared. Indy followed along as best he could, clutching a bundle of notes in the palm of his hand. Ross had set aside several hundred rubles to buy off the commandant, and as Danil gestured to him, Indy slid the money across the desk.

Almost immediately, the man snatched it up, eyes flashing with greed.

"…You accept our offer, then?"

The man shrugged, knitting his graying eyebrows. "All you want is this prisoner?"

"Yes. Can you show us where to find her?"

The commandant tucked the money into his desk drawer and locked it, then nodded. "Yes. Follow me."

Indy fell in behind Danil, boots tapping loudly against the concrete floor of the hallway. They reached a stairwell and began descending, and Indy felt an abrupt change of temperature. The air was cold and damp, and the overhead lights cast long shadows against the floor. The commandant turned down a hallway.

"This is the prison block."

The hall was lined with tiny cells, mostly empty and standing open. He felt his steps slow, suddenly weighed down by anxiety. He was moments away from encountering Spalko again. Conflicting feelings of rage and pity were entangled in his chest, and he struggled to take a breath. He wouldn't wish this place on his worst enemy, but even the most powerful empathy could not make him forget what had happened in Peru. Indy was tired of revisiting such a painful time, and he only hoped that delivering Spalko to Ross would be the end of it.

Squaring his shoulders, Indy stepped ahead of Danil, following the commandant to the end of the hall.

"Here."

* * *

Spalko traced a pattern on the ceiling for the hundredth time, trying to ignore the dryness in her throat. She was beginning to feel weak and feverish, and despite the cold, her skin was clammy. Sometime early in the day, she had watched a spider dart from one corner to the other, slipping into the darkness under her sleeping platform. The monotony provided little distraction from the burning in her head, the constant ache of her broken ribs. Once again, she tried to recall the beginning of the Akator mission, but she felt too lethargic to continue.

Footsteps echoed from the end of the hall. She hoped that the guard would deliver her cup of water, and she began gathering her strength to sit up. The sounds drew closer, and she heard the scrape of a key in the lock. Unfamiliar voices conversed outside the door, and as the hinge creaked, she closed her eyes.

" _Vot_."

" _Spasibo._ "

Someone entered her cell, and she turned her head in apprehension. A tall, gaunt man, auburn-haired and dressed in civilian garb, stood inside the door. He waved a hand, and a second figure crowded into the tiny space.

 _Jones_. Spalko's eyes widened, and her body grew heavy and cold. She blinked to clear the hallucination, wondering if her fever had brought about this strange symptom. She knew that dehydration could also cause delirium, and she cursed the guards for leaving her without water. As she went to turn away, the apparition laid a hand on her cheek, and she swore she felt calloused fingers against her skin.

"Spalko?"

 _This is only a hallucination – calm yourself_ , Irina repeated firmly in her head.

"Spalko, can you hear me?"

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. _Go away_.

"Spalko!"

Her eyes opened again as a second voice piped up, "Please listen, Dr. Spalko. We are here to help you."

Reality quickly sinking in, she tried to sit up. Jones was standing beside the red-headed man, face strangely blank. Managing to right herself, Spalko leaned back against the wall and stared at them in astonishment.

"Jones? What-"

"-We need to get you out of here."

* * *

Though it was built for four occupants, the interior of the snowmobile was cramped. Danil had taken the copilot's seat, leaving Indy and Spalko in the back row. She hadn't spoken since they left the prison, and her eyes were shut. Her nose was broken, and her face was covered with dried blood. The rest of her skin was deeply bruised, and her uniform was filthy and torn. She looked like hell, and this only intensified the conflict in Indy's head.

"There is a blanket under the seat," Danil shouted over the noise of the machine. Ayaal was guiding them through a stretch of uninterrupted tundra, the river sparkling brightly in the distance. The wind had died down and the day was relatively clear; Indy estimated that they were only an hour away from Suntar.

Fishing under the seat, he came up with a heavy wool blanket. "Hey," he said quietly, putting a reluctant hand on her shoulder. "Here's a blanket."

Opening her eyes, Spalko jerked away with a wince. "Broken scapula," she supplied flatly.

"Oh."

Without thinking, Indy unfolded the blanket and spread it over her legs, then returned to his own seat. His anger was beginning to dissipate, but he still needed an explanation for her actions. She behaved as though nothing was wrong between them, despite betraying him so utterly a few months before. Spalko had always been peculiar and socially inept, and he wondered if she would try to address the situation. Deciding to take matters into his own hands, he spoke:

"We have a long flight ahead of us, and I'll have questions for you."

"Fine," Spalko said calmly, smoothing the blanket. "And perhaps you can explain why you are in Siberia?"

Indy nodded slowly.

* * *

The cargo hold was much roomier without the snowmobile. Danil had opted to leave it with Ayaal as part of his payment, along with a small fuel tank and a set of wrenches. The sun was beginning to set, and Danil flew close to the ground, strong Siberian winds tossing the craft back and forth. Indy sat across from Spalko, sorting through the medical supplies stored in the crate. They would arrive in the Aleutian Islands within five hours, but there was perhaps an hour of daylight remaining.

Spalko had stayed quiet, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Indy had offered her water and painkillers, and he'd given her a coat from their supply of winter gear. She had accepted these things without a word, draping the coat carefully over her injured shoulder. Now, Indy pulled a washcloth from the crate and splashed it with water from the canteen.

"Here-" Indy leaned forward in the small space, extending the cloth "—You still have blood on your face."

Spalko lifted her arm, wincing visibly as the motion disturbed her broken shoulder. Indy moved quietly to her side, sitting back on his heels. He lifted the washcloth to her face, and she nodded. Carefully, Indy began dabbing the blood from her forehead, avoiding the gash across her temple. As he worked, he spoke:

"You wanted to know why I came to Siberia?"

"Yes. I was surprised, to say the least." Her voice was low, and he strained to hear over the roar of the engine.

"A few months ago, Ross found me in China. He offered me a deal, and he said if I helped him spring you from prison, he would give me a clean slate-"

"—Ross?" Spalko jerked back, and her expression was cautious.

"Yes. They have a deal for you, too."

"I do not want to work for the Americans."

"Well, it's better than freezing to death in a work camp!"

"My loyalty still belongs to the Soviet Union," she snapped. The tenor of the conversation had changed, and there was something cold in her expression.

"Fine. Tell that to Ross." Indy narrowed his eyes, squeezing the washcloth in his fist.

Spalko looked pale, but she continued angrily, "You exchanged my freedom for yours?"

"Freedom? That's how you'd describe Chistilishche?"

She fell quiet, considering his words. Indy stared over her shoulder, the old anger bubbling up again. Without considering, he opened his mouth.

"You're a hypocrite. You sold me out to the Soviets!"

"I did no such thing," she growled.

"Come on, Dr. Spalko. I'm not stupid."

"Neither am I."

"You told your commanding officer I was hiding at the monastery. It can't be a coincidence that the Russians showed up-"

"—Absolutely not!" She responded, with an air of finality. "I will tell you what happened, but you may not interrupt."

"Fine." As the plane rocked intermittently in the wind, Indy returned to his seat. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared at Spalko, skeptical but willing to hear her out.

* * *

"…Given my actions at the monastery, Stasevich brought me straight back to base. I was taken to Moscow and interrogated at KGB headquarters, and I admitted fault. I was sentenced to ten years' hard labor."

Spalko concluded her story and leaned back against the wall. The effort of speaking left her exhausted, and her mouth was sticky and tasted of blood. She ignored these things, watching Jones from across the hold. He stared at his hands, eyes heavy with conflict.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" he demanded quietly.

"How else would I know what occurred? You, Brother Tiago, and a third man were kneeling in the grass. I spotted the gasoline tank and hit it with a round. The tank exploded and you ran."

Indy finally raised his head, running a hand through his hair. "Those gunshots saved my life."

"Yes. I have excellent aim – as I told you, I was a sniper in the Great Patriotic War."

"Thank you."

She nodded brusquely. She was not offended by his initial distrust; after all, Jones had seen nothing but the explosion that flattened the men holding him captive. It did sting a little to imagine the months of anger he had built up, believing she had betrayed him. Moreover, she was irritated by how easily he had acquiesced to Ross. But these matters could wait until she was clear-headed and in better physical condition.

The painkillers were beginning to make her drowsy, and a faint headache remained. She let her chin slump forward, noticing the stiffness in her neck. Jones saw the motion.

"We still have a few hours before we reach base. You should rest."

She made a noise of agreement and squeezed her eyes shut. A few feet away, she could hear Jones begin to repack the medical supplies. Her departure from Chistilishche had been sudden and jarring, and she wasn't sure if what awaited her would be better. It would be advantageous to rest while she could.


	16. Order and Light

The base hospital was quiet at this hour, and faint orange light leaked through the curtains. The overhead lights were dimmed, and a faint repetitive beeping came from the next room. Spalko scowled at the ceiling, head still burning from the concussion. The medic had insisted on a saline drip, and the slight sting of the needle in her arm was distracting. He had also insisted on cuffing her to the hospital bed, as if she were in any position to escape. The base was located on a frozen strip of land in the Aleutian Islands, and the only thing for 100 kilometers was tundra and sea ice.

Dressed in a clean nightshirt, ribs bandaged and head wound sutured, Spalko was nonetheless in a tense mood. She knew that Ross would turn up sooner or later, and she was mildly curious about the deal he would offer. Her relationship with the Union was complicated, but she was not ready to create a permanent rift by assisting the Americans. Still, she would listen to Ross' proposal, if only to buy her recovery time. She knew they would be eager to interrogate her again, and she needed to let her injuries heal.

The tapping of footsteps came from the hall, and General Ross appeared in the doorway. He cut an imposing figure in the dim light, uniform crisp and tailored and heavy brow furrowed. He flipped the light switch and entered uninvited.

"Good morning, Dr. Spalko."

She snorted in response.

"You are a very rude woman," he said chidingly, crossing his arms over his chest. He did not sit, and Spalko wondered if his posture were meant to intimidate her.

She looked at him coldly. "Why do you bother me at this hour?"

"I am a busy man," he shrugged, "and I wanted to pay you a visit."

She tugged at the cuff on her left wrist as he continued. "Jones told you I was prepared to offer you amnesty?"

"Yes."

"What else did he say?"

"Nothing," she supplied, careful to sound disinterested.

"Well, we are developing an experimental weapon with some of the materials recovered at Akator. The assembly is much too dangerous for an American scientist-"

"—But not a Soviet," she finished.

"Exactly. I want you and Jones to oversee the project."

"Why Jones? He is very accomplished, but he is no scientist."

"He knows Akator. If we need to make a return trip, he will be an asset."

The offer was tempting, but as soon as Spalko began to entertain the idea, she felt a flash of anger. Was she so weak as to betray the Soviet Union for her personal freedom? Narrowing her eyes, she addressed Ross.

"And why do you think I would betray the Union?"

He took a minute to respond, uncrossing his arms and pressing his palms together thoughtfully. "…Because, Dr. Spalko, the Union has not been kind to you. Your own comrades were happy to watch you freeze to death, or starve, or succumb to injuries-"

She silenced him with a hiss. The words cut like a razor, but she was determined to remain stoic. "That is enough, General."

He shrugged, the light of a smile appearing in his eyes. "As you wish. I will return tomorrow for your decision."

She glared at his retreating back until he disappeared around the curve of the hallway.

* * *

Indy paused, and knocked softly on the doorframe. The base hospital was nearly deserted, and he could see his reflection in the polished linoleum floor. Ross had returned his fedora, but his satchel was long gone, probably somewhere in the wreckage of his apartment in Xi'an. Standing still, he pushed up the brim of his hat with one finger.

"Spalko?"

Her eyes flickered towards him, but she said nothing. The room was sparse and scrupulously clean, and Indy dropped into the only available chair, squeezed between the bed and the far wall. Through the gap in the curtains, Indy could see snow falling, settling into drifts and eddies against the perimeter fence. The view was distorted by a coating of ice on the windowpane.

Reluctantly, Indy turned his attention back to the task at hand. Spalko watched silently, waiting for him to speak. Her forehead was hidden by bandages, but he didn't miss the slight narrowing of her eyes. She was still angry.

"We should talk."

She let the words hang for a moment before she responded. "Yes, Jones. We should."

Indy had prepared a speech, but his thought were moving sluggishly. He started with a question. "Did you accept Ross' offer?'

She shook her head quickly. "I need time to deliberate."

"Fair enough."

There was a long silence, and Indy scratched his chin, preparing himself to speak.

Spalko interrupted. "Surely you came here for a purpose?"

"I did." Indy took a breath and averted his eyes. "I'm sorry, Spalko. I should never have helped Ross recapture you. I thought you had betrayed me, and-"

"—So you decided to even the score." Her tone was flat, but Indy didn't miss the quiet note of hurt.

"I guess I did. I was acting on what I knew at the time."

"Knew?"

"Assumed," he corrected briskly, "and I was wrong."

"Yes, you were."

Her imperious tone was beginning to irritate him, and he couldn't help but push back. "All that aside, you're not exactly being fair to me. I helped you leave Chistilishche."

"And? I am still a prisoner – nothing has changed."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Spalko, that labor camp was a horrible place. We both know it." His thoughts flashed back to the freezing cell and his first glimpse of Irina since Peru. She had looked haggard and sick, probably days away from death. The memory set his stomach roiling, and he shoved it away.

"At least I was with my countrymen. Here, I am among enemies."

"That's not true," Indy responded without thinking. "I'm not your enemy."

"That remains to be seen," she snapped, pointing towards the door. "Now, I want to rest."

* * *

It was midnight, and Spalko was lying still, eyes glued to the door. In her peripheral vision was the window, reinforced with a heavy grate, and behind her was a solid wall. She had always noticed such details, but they occupied her attention much more intensely now. In Siberia, staying alert was a matter of survival. Now, recuperating in the base hospital, her paranoia was a hard habit to break.

She hadn't slept well the previous night, plagued by blood-drenched nightmares and a persistent tremor in her limbs. She heard the crack of steel truncheon on bone, felt the cold barrel of a pistol pressed to the base of her skull, and smelled the cigar smoke that heralded the arrival of the guard. Chistilishche was a blur of violence and shame, and she hated the way it had ground her down. Her bones would knit, her scars would fade, but she wasn't sure how to manage this new feeling of powerlessness. The poison of the gulag had seeped into her bones, along with the knowledge that she had been brought low by her own treachery. She had deserved every strike, every indignity, every day spent dizzy with hunger, and this realization cut like a knife.

Ignoring her stinging eyes, she dug her fingernails hard into her palm. Spalko refused to weep, but something about the past few days had made her feel vulnerable, unstable. Jones had a point; her odds for survival were much greater here at the base, but she still felt adrift. Years ago, she had stolen one of her brothers' schoolbooks, and she'd read a story about a man lost at sea. Curled up within a dim circle of lantern light, she'd imagined floating in a vast expanse of water, with only the glow of stars to light her way. She'd read how the man located the north star and ascertained his location with simple calculations, and she'd devoured the account of building a still to extract potable water from salt. Now, she imagined herself aimless and drifting in a world within which she didn't belong.

She supposed she could accept Ross' offer and take the information back to the Soviets. Ross had mentioned an experimental weapon, and this was valuable intelligence that could help her regain the respect of her comrades. Yes, she had failed at Akator, but she was still an accomplished scientist. Armed with useful information, she was confident that she could regain her former position. Slowly, the seed of an idea began to take root. Having an objective made her feel calmer, but it didn't completely banish the distress of the past few months.

Resigned to sleeplessness, Spalko listened to the distant shuffle of hospital slippers, the occasional chime of machinery. She was surprised when heavy footsteps approached her door. There was a brief knock, and Jones appeared in the doorway, clutching a folder in his hands. She stared at him in surprise; after their tense conversation earlier in the day, she'd expected him to avoid her. Without asking, he settled into the chair, dropping the folder onto the small table.

"I couldn't sleep. I'll leave if you want, but-"

"—It does not matter." Despite the tension, she was glad to see him. She didn't relish the idea of being alone with her thoughts.

"Okay, I'll stay." His expression was still guarded, but he moved to open the folder, flipping through stacks of paper. Spalko read silently over his shoulder, and quickly gathered that the dossier related to Akator.

"A gift from Ross?"

Jones nodded. "Not a lot here, but he says he sent for the rest of the records."

He continued his perusal of the file, forehead furrowed. Spalko wondered what had brought him to the base hospital. Surely this studying could be done more comfortably in his own quarters. He dragged a fingertip over the paper, reading line by line. A handful of polaroids were included in the file, and she recognized them from Ross' office in Iquitos. Raising her eyes, she realized that Jones was staring at her.

"You look tired."

"Truthfully, Jones, I haven't been sleeping well."

"Because of what happened at Chistilishche?" he asked incisively, flipping the folder shut.

She nodded slowly. "It was a hard place."

"Well, as I said earlier, you aren't alone. I have this entire dossier to read" – he waved the packet in the air "—and I'm pretty tough to get rid of."

She scoffed at this, silently glad for his presence. As he turned back to the stack of papers, she let her eyes drift shut. Jones laid a hand over hers, lacing their fingers together.

"I'm glad we're on good terms again."

It was the closest thing she'd get to another apology, and she decided not to argue. Strained and complicated as their relationship was, she felt more secure with Jones beside her. Somehow he'd known that she would welcome his presence, and he'd also sensed that she would never ask. Spalko knew her own character; she was proud and aloof, always cognizant of the ways in which weakness could be exploited. And yet, half asleep with Jones' hand curled over her own, she didn't feel uneasy. Tightening her grip of his hand, she responded quietly, "As am I."


	17. I Hope You Blink Before I Do

When Ross returned, Spalko was ready. She had spent the morning mentally rehearsing, adding flourishes to make her change of heart more convincing. Jones was still with her, inspecting the polaroids under a magnifying glass and scribbling notes on the back of the folder. His presence made it easier to put aside her anxiety, and she quietly hoped he would stay when she announced her decision. In the meantime, his sporadic commentary on the contents of the folder provided a welcome distraction.

As Jones lifted up a photograph of a shattered stone pillar, intricately engraved with an alien inscription, there was the snap of metal on wood. Irina looked up to see Ross step into the room, flanked by two soldiers in unmarked uniforms. Again, the taller soldier swung his baton against the doorframe, commanding attention.

 _Ross came prepared for a confrontation_ , Spalko observed silently, grimly amused. She sat up straight as the men approached, taking places at either side of the hospital bed. None of the visitors acknowledged Jones.

Ross bared his teeth, but the expression bore little resemblance to a smile. "Good morning, Dr. Spalko. Have you made a decision?"

She nodded crisply. "Yes."

"And that is?"

"I will assist you." Her words were met with shock, and Ross waved his henchmen away, waiting for her to explain. "I have realized that my loyalty to the Soviet Union is not reciprocated. My comrades put me through hell, and I am ready to rain it on them in return."

The words left a bitter taste in her mouth, but Ross was beaming. "This is excellent news!"

Beside her, Jones snapped to attention. "What?"

Lying to him was painful, but she would never again let personal loyalties come before duty. "You know what happened to me at Chistilishche. Surely you understand why I'd change sides?"

He looked sober, nodding slowly. "I'm just surprised, is all."

Ross clapped his hands, interrupting the exchange. "You'll make a fine addition to my team, Doctor. Welcome to Project Amanita."

* * *

General Robert Ross was proud of his little kingdom. Over the past few months, he'd retrofitted the dilapidated laboratories with state-of-the-art equipment, collected stone and soil samples from the Akator site, and acquired two talented professionals to implement the project. Both were expendable, so there was no need to purchase filters or hazmat suits. At one time, Ross' conscience would have twinged at the idea. But now, after watching, white-knuckled, as the Russians acquired advanced technology, he was willing to ignore his scruples.

Ross had been deployed to the Pacific Theatre during the Second World War, and he'd watched many a friend bleed out or succumb to infection. Then there had been the POWs, whose mangled bodies reappeared after months or years, but whose sense of self never returned. These men had sacrificed for freedom and democracy, and Ross would be damned if he let the flame be extinguished now. His methods were sometimes ugly, but he was _successful_. And preventing that nightmare world, that future in which all bent a knee before the Soviet Union, was all that mattered.

Project Amanita was the most promising experimental weapon in a decade. After collecting the stories of witnesses, Ross had concluded that Spalko's experiences at Akator were attributable to a powerful hallucinogen. Harold Oxley, too, had felt the effects, but his death had made it difficult to probe further. His working theory was that the substance induced a kind of folie a deux, which would explain the similarities between Jones' and Spalko's accounts of the incident. Repackaged into a weapon, the hallucinogen could be a powerful tool for psychological warfare, inducing entire cities to believe whatever best served the interests of the American military.

Now, Spalko would analyze the samples brought back from Peru, isolate the substance, and test its affects in a controlled environment. Should the experiments be unsuccessful, he would send the two back to Akator. He had anticipated that he'd need to apply a great deal of force to get Spalko to cooperate, but her acquiescence was a happy surprise. He was sure that she had some ulterior motive, but so long as the work was done, Ross wasn't concerned.

Turning down a long hallway, he made his way to the first laboratory. Steel tables gleamed under fluorescent lights, and a row of lab coats hung neatly on the back wall. The space was to be kept sterile, and so Ross stopped at the doorway, admiring his handiwork. This weapon could change the outcome of the Cold War, and he was champing at the bit to see it developed.

* * *

Slipping the key into her pocket, Spalko flipped on the lights and scrutinized her new quarters. The room was cramped and dusty, crowded with rows of empty bunks. There was a pile of fresh uniforms on one cot, along with a few toiletries and a hairbrush. Moving from the hospital to the barracks had been simple – she had nothing to her name, save the tattered clothes from her time in the gulag. Someone had left a copy of Tolstoy's _War and Peace_ on the pillow, probably in an attempt to mock her. Nonetheless, she was happy for a bit of quiet entertainment.

After changing clothes, she ran a brush through her cropped hair. Standing in front of the mirror, she could see a long, raised scar stretching across her forehead. Her nose was a bit crooked now, but she looked otherwise unchanged. There was perhaps a bit of bruising across her cheekbone, and when she grimaced, she spotted a chip in one tooth. Still, all things considered, she looked presentable.

Jones hadn't visited since her confrontation with Ross, and she'd only seen him during their time in the laboratory, poring over field notes under the watchful eye of a guard. She wondered if he knew she was up to something, and if it was yet another blow to their fragile peace. He was polite – solicitous, even – but there was no warmth behind it. Sometimes she wondered if her fixation on Jones indicated more than a desire to reestablish their partnership. Still, anything more between them would be ill-advised, and so she quashed these feelings before she could fully comprehend them.

Taking a seat and picking up the book, she flipped slowly through the pages. The text was in English, but she supposed her English needed work after months of speaking Russian exclusively. As a child, she'd spoken Ukrainian at home, peppered with Tatar phrases from her mother's people. Now, she remembered little of either language.

Turning to the first page, she heard the creak of hinges. Jones stepped into the room, swinging his hat in his hand. Catching sight of her, he paused:

"I didn't think you were being released today."

She shrugged. "The medic cleared me."

There was an uncomfortable tension as Jones walked to a bunk near the corner. She glimpsed a trunk half-hidden beneath the bedframe, and he kicked it aside, hanging his hat on a nail. He'd been staying here longer than she had, and Spalko felt suddenly like an interloper. Laying down her book, she sat on the cot opposite his, threading her fingers tightly together. As she readied herself to speak, Jones interrupted her preparations.

"Do you like the book?"

"I'm a bit insulted," she huffed, unable to stop her mouth from turning up in amusement.

"It's a peace offering. I don't know what Soviets like to read, and…" He shrugged.

She was reminded that, despite spending much time together over the past year, they knew very little of each other. She tapped the cover. "Thank you. Now – a peace offering for what?"

"For staying away these past few days." He rubbed the back of his neck and winced visibly. "I know you are planning something, and I know that Ross believes you've changed sides. Whatever it is, I don't want to know. I'll be obligated to tell Ross."

She stared at him, instinctively understanding his words. "I understand loyalty to country, Jones. That is why I cannot let you know of my plans-"

"—Like I said, that's fine with me." He smiled suddenly, deepening the lines around his eyes. His shoulders sagged in relief.

Returning to her bunk, she wondered if she and Jones were not so different after all. He had expected her to be angry, but she empathized with his predicament. Empathy did not come naturally to Irina Spalko, but it was difficult to avoid imagining herself in Jones' place. She respected his commitment to the West, even if it made her job more difficult.

* * *

Squinting at the frame of the bunk above her, Spalko listened to the footsteps of the guard in the hall. He made his rounds every half hour, and he'd passed six times since the beginning of the night shift. Across the room, she could hear Jones snoring softly, and the wind howled outside the barred window. Despite the late hour, she was wide awake and buzzing with nervous energy. Something about the dark and the wind made her body tense, and she swore she could hear the tinny melody of _Varshavianka_ drifting over the prison yard. She caught a whiff of Russian tobacco, and the sweet smell of burning flesh as the end of a cigarette was extinguished on an unlucky arm. Freezing in her ragged gulag coat, she knelt still on the ground, listening to the crunch of footsteps on snow. The commandant, displeased with their progress, had threatened random executions. Now they were lined up and blindfolded, waiting for the first shot.

Behind her, someone struggled, but she kept stubbornly to herself, determined to remain invisible in the chaos. With all the strength of her thoughts, she repeated, _I am nothing to notice. You do not see me._ She stayed frozen as two shots split the air. Momentarily, there was the pressure of rough hands on her chin, and then the displacement of air as the guard moved along the line. With a crack, the man beside her crumpled, and she felt warm blood soaking into her boots. Someone moved towards her, and she smelled burning wool as the barrel of a gun, still smoking, was pressed against her hatted head. Blind and immobile, her instincts nonetheless screamed for her to run-

Somewhere in the distance, a claxon sounded, drawing Spalko back to the present. She balled the rough army blanket up in her fists, fighting down the nausea. Her heart thumped against her ribs, and her forehead was sheened with sweat. Sitting up, she glanced around the darkened room, slowly loosening her grip. She felt a sudden compulsion to talk to Jones and, before she could hesitate, she stood and walked across the room. Shakily, she sat down on the bunk across from his, grasping for an excuse to speak.

Looking down, she was startled to realize that he was already awake. In the dark, she could see only his outline. "Jones?"

He chuckled. "If you're going to sit there staring, you may as well get under the blanket. It's cold."

He moved slightly to the side, and she settled beside him, turning sideways so that they were face to face. They hadn't been in such close proximity since Peru, and she was conscious of his breath against her cheeks. The tremor in her limbs was beginning to abate, and she felt a sudden regret for her actions. Half-tempted to return to her own cot, she schooled her face into a neutral expression.

"You okay?"

"I am feeling a bit uneasy," she said stiffly, avoiding eye contact. "It is difficult to explain."

"I understand," he murmured. Inching closer, he laid a tentative hand on her arm. There was something strikingly intimate about lying together in the dark, and she idly wondered if he cared for her beyond what was expected of comrades-in-arms. Quashing the thought, she turned her gaze away.

"Nonfiction."

"What?"

"You asked what I liked to read. I am giving you the answer."

"Okay," he nodded, shedding his bewilderment. "What's your favorite book?"

A memory surfaced-

 _Sitting cross-legged in the barn, hunched over a book with the stub of a stolen candle, nine-year-old Irina felt safe in her little circle of light. She imagined a canopy of stars above her, the crash and spray of waves, the steady rocking of the ocean. She felt something mighty just beyond her fingertips, lurking at the edge of the candlelight, unknown and unknowable. Her mind was busy imagining drip stills and carved wooden fishing hooks, and she sketched absently in the dirt, making calculations in her head. Mentally, she built an escape from the dusty Crimean village, the grinding weight of poverty, the narrow mindedness of those who called her witch._

"A book from when I was a child. It was about a man who was lost at sea, and it described the things he did, the things he created to survive."

He hummed in interest. "Sounds fascinating."

"And yours?"

"That's a difficult question, Dr. Spalko."

"I gave you my answer," she countered brusquely.

"Fair enough. I'll go with _History of the Kings of Britain_. It's the only book I remember my father reading to me as a kid."

She shook her head, not recognizing the title.

He sighed. "We should rest. I'm sure Ross has plenty planned for tomorrow."

She nodded in agreement. Exhaustion weighed down her limbs, but she dreaded the nightmares that had plagued her since arriving on base. She concentrated on the weight of Jones' grip on her arm, the warmth of his skin against hers. She felt more secure here, with Jones quite literally at her back. And yet, the two of them were in a precarious situation, and Spalko felt the need to keep her wits about her. If she kept to her objective, if she didn't let the trauma of Chistilishche make her weak, perhaps there was a future for her in the Soviet Union.


	18. Hand in Unlovable Hand

Under the eyes of a disinterested guard, Indy finished scrubbing his hands and donned a lab coat. His scalp was covered by a sterile cap, and his well-worn boots were wrapped in plastic covers. It was midmorning, but the laboratory was windowless and bathed in bluish light. Holding a clipboard and pen, Spalko looked on as a centrifuge separated her samples for processing. She, too, was dressed in clinical gear, and her dark hair was hidden under a net.

"Good morning," he greeted.

She turned to Indy, barely taking her eyes off the machine. "These are the samples from Site 3. Please check if the record contains coordinates."

Noting her laser-like focus on her work, Indy nodded and pulled the folder for Site 3, a clearing across the lake from the ruined temple. Two photographs were clipped to the cover, along with a hand-drawn map and approximate coordinates. Holding it up to the light, Indy traced the vague outline of a river, a blue shaded circle that he supposed represented the lake.

"We do have coordinates, but I can't attest to their accuracy."

"This is the site across the lake, yes?" The machine beeped, and Spalko flipped up the lid, leaning forward to squint at the array of vials.

"Yes. Would you like to see the map?"

She beckoned him forward, and he handed the piece of paper to her. Her brow pinched together as she considered the sketch. "Ah. I see."

She tossed the paper onto the counter and turned back to the centrifuge. Snapping the lid back in place, she mashed a few buttons and turned back to Indy.

"Have you seen Ross today?"

Indy shook his head forcefully. Despite her unflappable demeanor, Indy knew that she found Ross' presence uncomfortable. As the scientist leading Project Amanita, she had suddenly gained ground in her struggle with the American officer. If Ross harmed her, he would risk her cooperation in developing the weapon. And still, Spalko was perpetually looking over her shoulder, eager to maintain this advantage.

So far, his peace with Irina had held. They had been working in the laboratory for a few days, and she treated him with brusque professionalism, too absorbed in her work to engage in extraneous conversation. At night, however, she continued to share his bunk, and Indy liked the company. It was becoming difficult to deny that he felt something for her, abrasive and closed-off though she was. This knowledge coexisted uneasily with the fact that Marion had been dead only five months. He still mourned for the family they could have been, and he knew that Marion's spirit, if indeed it were still lingering, would be irate at his choices. But when he looked at Spalko, intense and resilient and every bit his intellectual equal, he couldn't ignore the spark that lit up his chest.

"Fetch the pipettes," she directed over her shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. The samples were now lined up on a rack, and Spalko was pulling on a pair of heavy gloves.

"Sure." Indy rifled through the storage closet, surprised by the sheer selection. Ross had purchased a huge supply of equipment, and along with the stacks of files from Akator, the collection took up dozens of shelves. Tucking the box under his arm, he carried the supplies to the counter. Spalko was mixing chemicals in a small, round dish, and she retrieved a pipette, carefully transferring liquid from a vial to the dish. The mixture gained a reddish tint, and she tilted her head, lost in thought.

"Jones," she finally asked, still staring at the dish, "will you summon the guard? We have initial results."

* * *

"It is only soil," Spalko declared in a disappointed tone. "We detected traces of potassium nitrate, likely from gunpowder. We found nothing else of interest."

"And how many samples remain?"

"Two sets."

Ross let out a frustrated breath, and Indy stepped smoothly between them. "The last samples come from a site within the rubble. They look promising."

Spalko crossed her arms over her chest, giving Ross a chilly glance. "—But proper analysis will take time."

Ross stepped towards the exit, where his guards were waiting, and gave the rack of samples a final glance. His face was twisted in irritation, but he held his tongue. Before stepping out the door, he tossed a final command over his shoulder.

"Dr. Spalko, report to my office at 0600 tomorrow."

The door slammed behind him, and Indy leaned his forearms on the counter, sighing heavily. Rows of paper were spread before him, and his notebook was propped up nearby. He had taken to locating the samples on a large wall map taped above the counter. Indy idly traced the route that he and Spalko had taken months before, noting the elevation changes and river crossings. It had been a rough journey; his brush with malaria had left him weak for weeks, and his limbs were still scarred from insect bites. He would return to Akator if ordered, but he wasn't looking forward to the jungle.

Across the counter, Irina was preparing slides for the microscope, humming quietly to herself. Despite the circumstances, she seemed to enjoy working in the laboratory. As she held a bit of glass to the light, Indy approached.

"Need a hand?"

She shook her head. "I am nearly finished." Walking to the microscope and turning a dial, she continued, "these samples are no more promising than the previous. Why did you tell Ross otherwise?"

Indy looked down. The truth was, he'd felt a sudden compulsion to smooth things over, in hopes of diminishing Ross' wrath. His one-time friend was not prone to fits of violence like his colleague Marino, but he was certainly capable of cruelty. He'd allowed Spalko to be tortured back in Iquitos, and their current détente would only last as long as the project was successful. He decided to speak plainly.

"Ross is unpredictable. I didn't want him to lash out."

"I see." Irina turned towards him, and something softened in her expression. "Be careful, Jones. I do not wish for you to become a target."

* * *

The office was freezing cold, and Spalko kept her hands in her pockets, leaning back against the chair. Ross had demanded her presence at first light, and she had spent a sleepless night strategizing. Despite her change of circumstances, she deeply distrusted the man, and she had no doubt that he would have her beaten again in a heartbeat. Even now, his guards were posted outside the door, batons at the ready. Ross sat across the desk, an imposing figure in his tailored uniform coat and polished boots. When he spoke, his breath was visible in the chilly air.

"Spalko-"

"Why have you called me here?" She cut him off brusquely, eager to gain the upper hand.

He pursed his lips at her rudeness. Silently, he reached towards a tape recorder at the edge of his desk. Switching it on, he startled at the sudden whirring that emanated from the machine. Then he brushed off his hands and fixed her with a cold stare.

"I have questions for you. As an American asset, I'm sure you'll have no objection to answering them."

"It depends," she responded carefully. She was reluctant to feed him classified information, even if it helped to cement her role in Project Amanita. Such disclosures could be dangerous for the Soviet Union, even if they allowed her to gain the trust of the Americans.

Ross opened a desk drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper. Smoothing it carefully, he began. "First, please state your full name, date and place of birth for the record."

She rattled off this information, wondering what else he would ask. Her thoughts racing, she tried to settle on a strategy. Ross interrupted her ruminations by slamming the desk drawer.

"Pay attention, Doctor. What is your relationship with the KGB?"

"I am an officer in the Science and Technology Directorate. I am a scientist."

"You _were_ an officer. I'm certain Russia stripped you of your rank when you were arrested."

This was true, and Irina nodded slightly, feeling a pang of shame and loss.

"Now, what kind of work did you perform for the Directorate?"

"Experimental weapons development. Stalin was greatly interested in psychic warfare, and he tasked us with researching these phenomena."

"And that is why you traveled to Peru?"

"Yes. I was looking for Akator."

"You were involved in creating other weapons, correct?" His inflection changed, and she saw a flash of genuine interest in his expression.

"Of course."

"You'll need to be specific," he demanded, "I want you to give me a list."

"That information is classified," Spalko said firmly, pulling her hands from her pockets.

"You are on our side now. Answer my question."

A tense silence settled over the room. Irina clasped her hands before her, straightening her back. She was determined to win this contest of wills, and she wouldn't let Ross' theatrics frighten her into complying. Outside the window, a faint golden line appeared at the horizon, and she heard shouts as the morning shift change commenced. Ross drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

Behind her, Spalko heard the door creak open. "Sir," one of the guards interrupted, "You have a visitor at the front gate."

Ross hummed in surprise. Standing up abruptly, he flipped off the recorder and retrieved a cardboard box from under the desk. "One moment, Private Gauthier."

"Yes, sir."

Removing the tape, Ross replaced it with another from the box. He mashed a few buttons, straightened his coat, and departed with a final remark.

"I will return within the hour. Until then, perhaps this will serve to remind you of the consequences of not cooperating."

With a hiss of static, the tape began to play.

* * *

When Spalko returned to the barracks, it was evening. Indy had already settled into his bunk, oiling his boots by the light of a kerosene lantern. Absorbed in his work, he was startled by the slam of the door. Across the room, she was no more than a shadow, slipping off her boots and jacket and sitting down at the edge of the mattress. She ignored his greeting, staring at the floor and hugging her arms to her chest.

Indy had believed them to be on good terms, and so he was surprised by her standoffishness. Feeling a sudden flicker of concern, he put aside his project and stood.

"Spalko?"

She didn't respond, and so he crossed the room, crouching down beside her. "What's wrong?"

"Leave me be," she grumbled, turning her head away.

Despite their partnership, Spalko was reluctant to discuss matters of any emotional importance. He remembered that she had spent the day being questioned by Ross, and he wondered if something had shaken her. Torn between pushing further and returning to his bunk, he laid a hand on her knee.

"We're allies, okay? You can trust me."

She didn't react, only hunched forward further, avoiding his gaze. Indy gave up, resolving to respect her privacy. Taking his feet, he took a few steps towards his side of the room.

"Jones?"

"I'm right here," he assured her quietly, sitting back down.

Another minute passed in silence, but Indy stayed put, waiting for her to speak. Finally:

"Ross called me to his office for questioning."

"I know."

"He felt I was being uncooperative," she said stiffly. "He had a box of tapes."

"What tapes?"

"From my interrogation in Iquitos. With Marino."

Indy felt bile rise in his throat. He wanted to put an arm around her, but he kept to his space, listening.

"Ross played the entire recording-" Her voice cracked slightly, and she dropped her hands into her lap, shaking like a leaf. "—They killed my soldiers in front of me."

Indy retrieved her jacket from the floor, tucking it around her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, and she barely registered his movements. He dropped down beside her, at a loss for how to respond.

"I heard the shots," she whispered, lips barely moving.

"I'm sorry."

He smoothed the fabric of the coat over her shoulders, but she didn't react to his touch. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"Their blood is on my hands."

"No," he said forcefully, keeping a hand on her shoulder. "You made a difficult choice."

She quickly swiped a hand over her cheeks, and he pretended not to notice. Her pain was like a punch in the gut, and he was surprised by the strength of his reaction. He vaguely remembered Marino executing the rest of the Soviet captives, but he hadn't realized that Spalko had witnessed their deaths. He'd been lost in his own grief over the fates of Marion and his son, and the incident had barely been a blip on his radar. Now, he remembered the staccato bang of shots as he worked elsewhere in the prison, the row of sheet-covered bodies in the interrogation room. The past few months had been a blur of pointless, ugly deaths, and he saw in his mind's eye the bouquet he'd placed at the crash site, scattered by the mountain wind. He gritted his teeth.

"From what I saw," he continued grimly, "your men were willing to follow you to their deaths. That kind of respect doesn't come easily."

"I let them sacrifice, while I survived."

"…And you think you didn't sacrifice?" He angled his body towards her, catching her eye. He softened his tone a little but addressed her emphatically. "Spalko, I was _in_ Iquitos. I remember."

She let her weight fall against him, and he kept his arm around her, holding her tightly. The world felt infinitely complex and brutal, and he wondered how they'd manage to stay alive these past few months. Whatever ulterior motives she had for collaborating with Ross, whatever unresolved tension they still had between them, Indy was grateful that they were once again allies. Spalko was a force to be reckoned with, even when she didn't measure up to her own exacting standards.

"Guilt will eat you alive," he concluded, remembering the nights he'd spent agonizing over Marion's fate.

She put her hand over his, and he felt the cold grip of her fingers. "Stay here for a while?"

He nodded. "Maybe we should change topics. Did I tell you about the dig I worked on in Xi'an?"


	19. Filling the Darkness

The man waiting at the gate was short and round-bellied, with a fine rime of ice coating his moustache and eyebrows. His head was covered by a battered panama cap, completely unsuited to the frosty Alaskan weather. He staggered into the entryway, shaking snow onto the floor, and tore off a glove with his teeth.

He offered his hand. "Thanks for coming to my rescue, mate."

Ross stared at him critically. The face was vaguely familiar, and the rhythm of his voice suggested origins in London. Declining the hand, Ross shut the heavy door behind them.

"It was foolish to show up unannounced. Now, who are you?"

Still puffing from the cold, he retracted his hand. "George McHale, sir."

 _Ah._ Ross stroked his chin, recognizing the name. "What brings you to Alaska?"

"You have a problem. I'm here to help you fix it."

"Problem?" Ross ushered McHale down the corridor, towards the interrogation room.

"That's what I said, yeah."

They entered the room, barely furnished with a metal table and hanging lightbulb. McHale toppled into a folding chair, whipping off his hat and placing it in front of him. Ross cleared his throat.

"Don't get too comfortable, Mr. McHale. Tell me why you're here."

McHale flashed a gap-toothed smile. "Well, to start at the beginning, I woke up buried in the rubble of Akator. You know what happened at Akator, right?" When met with a nod, he continued. "Took me five bloody weeks to reach civilization, and even longer to get in contact with my Soviet handler. I got my payment and went back to England. About a week ago, a Russian bloke turns up at my flat, and he's asking if I'm still peddling my services."

"What did he want you for?"

"Spalko. He told me she was alive and had been condemned to a labor camp in Siberia. He told me she'd disappeared, and he wanted me to find her."

"And your search led you here?"

"Yes." McHale wiped his nose with the back of his hand and replaced his hat. "My sources tell me that she's here."

Ross stood, pushing his chair back. He prepared to call for the guards but was interrupted by McHale's hand on his arm.

"For the right price, I'm prepared to switch sides."

Ross returned to his seat, wheels turning in his head. The Soviets were looking for Spalko, and if they successfully regained custody, she would tell them all the details of her research. He wasn't foolish enough to believe she'd shifted loyalties, and if Project Amanita fell into Russian hands, the results could be catastrophic. McHale would be an asset, indeed, and he might also be helpful if they needed to return to Akator.

Ross inclined his chin. "I'm listening."

* * *

Mac followed Ross through a maze of dimly-lit hallways, his boots dripping melted snow in his wake. Until a few moments ago, he had been congratulating himself for his own cleverness in coming to Alaska to sell his services. But now, as he prepared for a reunion with Jones, he felt a creeping sense of embarrassment. They had been heroes, back during the war, traipsing all over Europe and outsmarting Nazis at every turn. But years of near-poverty and a crippling gambling addiction had taught him that the world was an inhospitable place for heroes. It was better to keep your head down, to take every advantage and mind your business. He was only trying to make a living, but Jones would see his recent choices as a betrayal of the values they'd both held.

Ross came to a stop, nodding crisply at the two guards stationed outside the door. Mac gulped.

The room was a laboratory, shining chrome and fitted with expensive machinery. The door creaked, announcing their presence. Jones was seated at the table, hunched over a pile of polaroids with a magnifying glass. His hair was a bit grayer, and he'd lost some weight. He looked up, eyes locking onto Mac.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Ross stepped forward, lifting a hand to silence them. "Mr. McHale also survived Akator, and we have purchased his services for the foreseeable future."

Mac shoved his hands into his pockets. "Hello to you, too, Jonesy."

Jones scowled silently. Mac scanned the room until his eyes fell on Spalko. She was dressed in a lab coat and hairnet, and her eyes were shielded by thick plastic goggles. She looked pretty rough, with a thick scar stretching across her temple and a newly-crooked nose. She rolled her eyes in disgust.

"What service could McHale possibly have to offer?" she posed the question to Ross.

Ross gave him a nod, and so McHale answered. "Plenty, I can assure you. A few days ago, a Russian bloke contacts me. Says that you escaped from a work camp in Siberia, and they'll pay a pretty penny to get you back. I didn't fancy going to Siberia in the autumn, so I brought the information to Ross instead."

Spalko looked startled. Sinking into the seat beside Jones, she pulled off her cap and rolled in between her hands. Jones slapped a hand on the table.

"Did the Russian say why they wanted her back?"

Mac shrugged his shoulders. "I imagine that when a person escapes from the gulag, it warrants some response from the authorities."

Jones and Spalko exchanged a glance. Mac was interested to observe that they seemed to be on good terms. Ross broke the silence.

"McHale will be at my disposal for the duration of the project. If we make a return expedition to Akator, he will be a valuable resource."

Jones laughed bitterly. "Be careful, Ross. I trusted Mac once, too. It didn't turn out well."

"Jonesy-" Before he could finish his protestations, Ross herded him towards the door.

* * *

When Spalko entered the barracks, Jones was sitting at the edge of his bunk, framed by the flickering light of the kerosene lantern. He flipped quietly through a tattered book, squinting through a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. She hung her jacket and unlaced her boots, thoughts still in a jumble. McHale's appearance had thrown a wrench in her plans, and she was even more disquieted by the fact that the Soviets were looking for her. Part of her wanted to return to them willingly, to grit her teeth and serve out the rest of her sentence. On the other hand, she still indulged the idea that she could return in glory, armed with cutting-edge technology stolen from the Americans. For the time being, she would continue working on the weapon, in order to buy time to deliberate.

Jones patted the spot next to him, closing his book. "Good evening."

She shrugged off his greeting and took a seat, still distracted by her thoughts. "McHale is here," she reminded him quietly. "My countrymen are searching for me."

He chuckled slightly. "Straight to the point."

"His presence will make things rather…complicated."

"Things are already complicated."

She grimaced in silent agreement. Then: "What could McHale possibly have to offer? Is Ross only paying him for his silence?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Jones removed his glasses and inspected the lenses, then polished them against his shirt.

"But he was your partner during the war, yes?"

"That was a long time ago."

They sat in silence for a moment, and Spalko stared across the room, watching shadows flicker across the walls. Jones, too, seemed disturbed by McHale's sudden reemergence. She could feel a tension in the air, and a tight line appeared between his brows. She would never implicate Jones in her plans, but part of her wanted to share with him her dilemma. For all the harm it had done to her, the Soviet Union was her motherland, and she felt a pull to return. Living among the Americans, surrounded by enemies, Spalko felt ill-at-ease. Jones was a steady and reliable presence, and she respected his judgement.

"-But no sense dwelling on the matter," Jones concluded, retrieving his book. "I visited the base library, and they have quite a good collection of archaeological texts. This one is about the rediscovery of Angkor Wat in Cambodia."

His eyes flashed with excitement as he flipped the cover open. She moved closer, staring down at a hand-illustrated map of Southeast Asia. The colors were muted in the dim light, and as he turned the page, she looked down at a photograph of an intricately carved corridor. She had visited Cambodia once, in the early days of her association with the Science and Technology Directorate. They'd been searching for a solid gold scepter, apparently imbued with the power to cause earthquakes. As expected, the object had possessed no special capabilities, but her work had pleased the upper command.

"What's wrong?" Jones laid a hand on her back, interrupting her thoughts.

"I…" She struggled for the words. "I'd like to return to the Soviet Union."

"I know," he said wearily. "I understand patriotism, Spalko, but I don't think you owe them anything. Especially after Siberia."

"It isn't a matter of owing," she muttered.

"Well, whatever the reason, I'm glad you're here now." His tone was sincere, and she felt a sudden softness towards him.

Lifting a hand, he brushed a wayward strand of hair from her forehead. Tucking it behind her ear, he kept his hand pressed to her cheek, his fingers warm and calloused. Her thoughts slowed, and the white static in her head left no room for caution or practicality.

When he kissed her, his touch was surprisingly gentle, though his arm was tight around her waist. His chin was rough with stubble, and he smelled of kerosene and laundry soap. The embrace lasted only a few seconds, and then he pulled away, flushed and nervous.

"I'm sorry—"

"Do not apologize." She looked up at him, feeling a sudden awkwardness between them. She needed time to consider her next move, even if she wanted nothing more than to stay in his embrace. She stood up and walked to the lantern, stooping to twist the dial.

"—But it is late. Perhaps we can discuss this tomorrow."

In the last of the light, she saw him nod.


	20. Past the Last Exit

"McHale!" Spalko called out sharply, curling a finger in his direction.

Mac stepped out of the doorway and into the cool confines of the laboratory. Despite her change in fortune, Irina still had a way of frightening him to his core. She stood imperiously behind the counter, back perfectly straight and face composed. Almost timidly, he ran a hand over his bare head and asked, "Yes?"

"I wish to speak with you."

Mac composed himself, leaning an elbow against the counter with a studied nonchalance. "You're speaking with me now, love."

She glared. "About your dealings with my countrymen."

"Ah, yes. They didn't seem very pleased by your absence."

There was the same steely glare, but her cheek twitched slightly. Mac knew a tell when he saw one, and he quickly surmised that something about the statement had bothered her. Not allowing her time to respond, he pushed further. "—It's right shocking, actually. Your man told me you'd been sent to the gulag for attacking a Soviet patrol in Peru. Never thought you'd stab your comrades in the back-"

"—You misunderstand the circumstances," she interrupted, eyes wide with barely-controlled anger. "The Soviet presence in Peru was under corrupt leadership. I merely intervened."

Mac stifled a laugh. "Even the bloody gulag couldn't knock the arrogance out of you."

He watched her take a deep breath, smoothing her palms over her laboratory coat. "I did not summon you so we could bicker. I have questions."

"Yes?"

"Your Russian visitor…he wanted you to return me to Chistilishche, correct?"

"I got that impression, yes," Mac responded. The visit had been brief, with the Russian man settling in his living room only long enough to smoke a cigarette. He'd given Mac an envelope of cash and disappeared into the London rain. "He said they would settle for a location, but there would be a cash bonus if I delivered you to Siberia directly."

"Then why are you here?"

"Well, I didn't exactly relish going to Siberia at this time of year. It seemed easier to show up here and offer the Americans what I had."

Spalko nodded slowly. The twitch in her cheek returned, and she looked cautiously over her shoulder. Then: "I want to return to Russia. You can take me to Chistilishche, yes?"

Mac stumbled back in shock. He had no idea why she'd want to return to the gulag, but it didn't matter. He had already started to calculate the payout he could expect from his Russian handler. Ross had compensated him well, but if he could return Spalko to the USSR, he would stand to make more than twice that amount. A satisfied smile crept over his lips.

"Possibly. Although I'll need time to plan."

She nodded crisply. "See that you keep me informed."

Squirming under her gaze, Mac shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the door. As he ducked past the guards and reentered the hallway, his thoughts were spinning. He'd only taken the job for an extra bit of cash, but it was proving to be more interesting than he'd hoped. Spalko seemed to be laboring under the delusion that her relationship with the USSR was still salvageable, that she hadn't committed an unforgivable sin by attacking her own countrymen. She had to know that nothing was left for her in Russia, save a bullet to the head. McHale was not honorable enough to ruin his payout by forcing her to stay, but he winced a little at her stupidity.

* * *

It was an hour past midnight, and the laboratory was eerily quiet. As Spalko carried a box of slides to the microscope, she was strongly aware of the tap of her boots on the tile. The air smelled sterile, and glare of overhead lights on steel counters made her dizzy. Working in the underground room, Spalko often felt outside of time, disconnected from the short days and long, cold nights on the island above. She had been processing samples since dawn, hurrying to finish the analysis before McHale solidified his plans to return her to Siberia. She intended to come back with extensive information about Project Amanita and her findings, and she hoped it would be enough to earn her favor from the directorate. Spalko was not naïve enough to believe she could earn a clean slate, but she hoped for mercy.

Her late nights at the laboratory served another purpose. If Spalko let herself sleep, she knew she'd dream of Chistilishche. The place had been hell, but she was determined not to lose her nerve. These past few weeks, she'd had a reoccurring nightmare of standing in the prison yard, waiting for the fatal shot. Her trousers and boots were soaked with slush, and the prickling in her feet told her that frostbite was setting in. She could feel the heat of the gun barrel pressed against her head, and the smell of burning hair hung in her nostrils. The air felt permeated with dread, and when she tried to take a breath, her lungs didn't respond. The dream usually ended with the crack of a bullet, jolting her back to her body and the stillness of the barracks.

Snapping a pair of gloves onto her hands, she dropped a few slides onto the counter. Her eyedropper and vials of samples were already arrayed, the soil sealed in airtight glass. Taking the dropper, she carefully unscrewed the lid and withdrew a tiny amount of muddy liquid. Her hands shook with exhaustion, but she placed the dropper precisely at the center of the square of glass and finished assembling the slide. A morbid part of her wondered if she'd even survive another nine years at the work camp. She did not fear a bit of temporary pain, but the gulag had been something different. Her rational mind told her that it was the price of returning to Russia, that she could endure anything for the glory of the motherland. And yet, a few months in Siberia had shredded her dignity and left her hollow. She stared down at the microscope, idly repositioning the slide with her index finger.

There was a heavy banging on the door, and she jumped, flattening her hands against the counter to steady herself. Two guards entered the room, not bothering to cover their shoes or don hairnets.

Spalko glowered at the men. "Why do you disturb me?"

"Your plane leaves in twenty minutes. You will follow us."

"What?" Spalko wondered if McHale had somehow managed to bribe the guards into helping her escape. Her stomach dropped at the suddenness, but she pushed aside the nausea.

"You and Jones are going to Akator. General's orders," the taller man supplied.

"I object – I need time to finish my analysis."

"Too bad." The shorter man spoke with an American twang, and as she stepped back, he reached for her arm. "Don't waste your energy arguing."

His grip was strong, and she winced, snatching her arm away. The guards hustled her into the hallway, and she followed them wordlessly, lost in thought. The timing was suspicious, and she wondered if McHale had told Ross of her request. More likely, Ross had been listening in to their conversation, and he'd planned the trip to preclude her escape to Siberia. She had been so sure she wanted to return, and now that the possibility had evaporated, she felt ashamed of her own relief. Her mind spun, faster and faster, as she walked towards the plane and Akator.

* * *

Ross had requisitioned a bushplane to take them to the mainland, and Indy found himself sitting in the cargo hold, surrounded by crates of supplies. He'd been awakened from a dead sleep by the shouts of the guards, and he'd scarcely had time to dress before they'd hurried him to the hangar. Now, he sat on a low bench near the window, squinting in the faint moonlight that leaked through the glass. Spalko sat beside him, taciturn and still, hair still mussed from the plastic hairnet. She had been summoned directly from the laboratory, and he doubted she'd slept at all.

"What is Ross playing at?" he asked, filling the silence.

Spalko shrugged. "I was not informed."

"It was a rhetorical question," he responded, smiling weakly. She nodded detachedly, even more distant than usual. Her pale eyes were fixed on the ground, and her stare was empty.

He touched her hand. "Irina, is something wrong?"

He didn't know what possessed him to use her first name, and it felt strange on his tongue. They had always used surnames, and even after their kiss, using it felt uncomfortably intimate. Something in her expression softened however, and she spoke:

"I am just exhausted."

"Me, too," he said with a chuckle, gripping her hand. "But beyond that-"

She looked at him guardedly.

"-Whatever it is, just tell me."

She took a breath, pulling her hand away. "I refuse to implicate you."

"Look, I don't give a damn about being implicated."

She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the bulkhead. She spoke softly, barely audible over the roar of the engine: "I asked McHale to help me return to Chistilishche."

"What?" Indy could feel his jaw go slack, and he blinked at her in astonishment.

"I want to go home – I can no longer live among enemies. But…"

"-Ross interrupted your plans," he finished. His mind was a tangle of anger and disbelief.

"Yes."

"You have to know that returning would be suicide," he muttered, shaking his head.

"I'd rather die in the Soviet Union than live in the west."

The words rankled him, and he gave in to the itch of anger. "That is insane."

"Yes?" She snatched up his hand, guiding his fingers to the back of her head. There was a shorn spot and a circular burn scar, small but raised at the edges. He brushed his fingers over the patch, looking at her uneasily.

"What is this?"

"From Chistilishche. They shot the prisoner next to me, then put the gun to my head while it was still smoking. I know what awaits me, Jones. But if I must die, it will be in the good graces of my country."

Indy didn't know how to respond. His hand was still in her hair, and her fingers dug into his palm.

"When Ross summoned me to the hangar, my relief made me feel guilty. I was terrified of returning to that hell."

He'd come to care for Spalko, and part of him wanted to beg her to stay. Underneath the anger and shock, he felt a desperate unease. The thought of her returning to Siberia made him panic, and he couldn't help but remember the scene that had greeted him when he walked into her cell. That day haunted his nightmares, and the thought of brought bile to his throat.

"I'm glad you told me," he murmured, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She let him pull her to his chest, her posture stiff and awkward. His heart thudded against his ribs, and he ran a gentle hand over her back. She relaxed a little, and he felt her exhale against his skin.

"I would have missed you, Jones." It was as close as she would get to a declaration of affection, and Indy felt a flush creep up his neck.

He scuffed a booted foot against the floor, listening to the hum of the engines and the rush of wind. It was quite a turn of events, and Indy found himself unexpectedly relieved to be returning to Akator. He hated the jungle: the insects, the heat, the lurking tropical diseases. But their trip had prevented Spalko from making a choice that he was sure would lead to her execution. Marion's death still weighed on him, a constant weight in his chest, like a wet rag stuck to his ribs. Indy had outlived many a friend, but the previous year had brought a barrage of losses. He was eager for a respite, even if it involved muggy forests and vicious mosquitos.


	21. Let the Earth Fall Around Us

Spalko swung out of the jeep and shouldered her pack, breathing in the familiar muggy air. After flying into Iquitos, they'd taken the jeeps as far into the jungle as possible. Just ahead, the rough trail disappeared, swallowed up by shadowy trees and mud. The drivers would take the vehicles back to the American compound in Iquitos, while she and Jones would go on ahead. Ross had provided scientific equipment, weapons, and six footsoldiers, who were currently disembarking behind her. She joined Jones at the edge of the jungle, already sweating in the tropical heat.

One soldier carried a cutlass, and he walked a few meters ahead, clearing a path. She heard the grumble of an engine as the vehicles departed. Jones, outfitted in hiking boots and a worn leather hat, followed the man into the trees. Spalko followed quietly, and the rest of the men took their places at the rear. They estimated that it would take a week to reach Akator, then another few days to collect additional samples. By the tight set of his jaw, Spalko guessed that Jones wasn't happy about being back in the Amazon. His face was red with sunburn, and the back of his neck was shielded by a tattered bandana.

She matched his stride. "I doubt we'll find anything of interest at Akator. The ruins have been exposed to the elements for nearly a year."

He squinted at her. "That's pessimistic..."

She hummed noncommittally, placing her feet carefully on the muddy ground. "Perhaps. But it's wise to temper our expectations."

He shook his head. "You're not excited to be returning to Akator?"

"Of course I am." She hadn't entirely let go of the notion that, if they found something significant at Akator, she could use this knowledge to reingratiate herself with the politburo. Relieved as she was that her attempt to return to the gulag had failed, she still hoped to reconcile with the USSR.

"When we met, you were obsessed with the place."

Spalko shrugged. She supposed it was a fair characterization – Akator had been the culmination of her life's work, and she had been fiercely determined to seize its treasures. But the past few months had made her cynical, and now she cared about nothing more than regaining what she had lost.

"It was meant to be my crowning achievement-"

Jones cut her off with a wave of his hand, stopping abruptly. There was a rush of air above her head, then one of the men dropped to the ground, clutching his throat. Spalko dropped to a crouch, instinctively reaching for her pistol. A second later, a barrage of arrows began raining from the trees, and she heard shouts from the soldiers arrayed behind her. She fired a few shots into the forest, scanning the underbrush for the source of the arrows. The shadows made it difficult to distinguish anything, and there was another scream as the cutlass-wielding soldier collapsed, bleeding from the side.

"Get down!"

She felt a rough push, and she stumbled, face hitting the dirt. Above her, Jones yelped, then muttered a string of curses. She felt the displacement of air as arrows landed around her, then lifted her head, firing a round in the direction of the shots. There was a rustle in the treetops, and she wondered if her bullets had found their mark.

Jones was still standing, hand clamped over his forearm. Blood leaked from under his fingers and dribbled onto the ground. She grimaced.

Springing to her feet, she spun around, still unable to spot their attackers. She fired a final shot into the trees, and the arrows seemed to taper off. Waving her hands in the air, she bellowed for the men to regroup.

The soldier who had been shot in the neck was dead, and the other was doubled over in pain, hands pressed to his side. Spalko approached.

"Radio the jeeps," she ordered. "This one isn't fit for travel."

Kneeling, she inspected the soldier. His face was white, and his hand was wrapped around the arrow protruding from his abdomen. He whimpered under his breath.

"Keep him conscious, and do not attempt to remove the arrow. You-" she pointed to another soldier "—Watch the trees. If you spot anything, start firing."

She heard the squawk of the radio, and she turned back to Jones, brushing mud from her face. The return trip to Akator was off to an inauspicious start.

* * *

By the time they made camp, it was raining torrentially, and Indy was soaked to the skin. His forearm stung beneath the bandages, and he was sunk to his ankles in mud. They didn't bother with a fire, instead handing out MREs and dismissing the remaining men to their tents. Indy slipped off his waterlogged boots before going inside, stooping to pass through the tent flap.

"Good evening." In the fading light, Spalko looked as bedraggled as he did, hair wet and sticking to her forehead, clothes spattered with mud. She had taken off her jacket, and her exposed shoulders were mottled with mosquito bites. She waved a roll of bandages in his direction.

"Let me see your wound."

Indy dropped down obediently, sitting on his heels. "It's barely a scratch."

"Nevertheless, it's important to avoid infection."

She carefully unknotted the bandage and discarded it, staring critically at the jagged hole in his arm. Retrieving a bottle of sterile alcohol, she poured a little into the cap and let it drip over his forearm. Indy winced at the sting. Finally, she covered the wound with a layer of gauze and replaced the bandages.

"It's finished." Her hand lingered on his arm.

"Thanks."

The light had dwindled to nothing, and Indy retrieved his bedroll, careful to arrange the mosquito net over his head. Outside was the faint flash of a lantern and the heavy steps of the soldier on watch. A light rain hissed against the tarp above their heads, and Indy could feel the temperature dropping. Pulling the blanket over his legs, he set his hat aside.

Spalko had returned the medical supplies to her pack, and she stretched out beneath her own mosquito net. Without a word, she reached out and found his hand, and he wove his fingers with hers.

"I'm concerned about the possibility of more attacks," she said quietly. "We can't afford to lose additional men."

Indy nodded in agreement, then realized she probably couldn't see him in the darkness. "The local tribes don't appreciate trespassers," he supplied. "The best thing to do is to pass through as quickly as possible."

"—And make sure we have superior firepower," she said drily.

Indy winced. "I'd like this expedition to be as bloodless as possible."

"Too late for that." There was a silence, and he felt her hand go slack.

"Irina?"

She exhaled heavily. "What if we find nothing at Akator?"

"Then it's back to square one, I suppose."

"Not for me. Ross will not forgive my failure." Her voice dropped to an uneasy whisper.

"Shh," he murmured, inching closer until their shoulders touched. "I'm sure Ross understands that you can't just snap your fingers-"

"—And I need to succeed for other reasons. Reasons I cannot share."

Indy shrugged one shoulder and stared at the canvas above his head. He suspected Spalko would attempt to bring any findings back to the USSR, and he assumed that Ross was expecting the same. He wished fervently that Irina would give up the idea of returning to Russia. The labor camp would kill her, either through cold or malnutrition or random violence. Indy wasn't ready to admit that he loved her, not with Marion's ghost still lingering in his thoughts, but the thought of harm befalling Irina was heart-wrenching.

"I already know."

"Prove it," she challenged.

"You want to bring your findings back to the Soviet Union."

When she didn't respond, he continued. "However, Ross has to know that you will attempt this. He'll try to stop you."

"Let him try," she spat.

The determination in her voice was frightening. Indy squeezed her hand. "Irina, please. You have nothing left in the Soviet Union. A few lab reports won't dissuade them from killing you."

The words were harsh, and Indy almost regretted them. He waited for Spalko to raise her voice, to storm out of the tent. But she only muttered:

"I am afraid of that outcome."

"I know. When I lost my position at the university, when I tried to flee the country, I felt gutted. I'd served my country in the war, I'd recited the Pledge of Allegiance every goddamn day. But as soon as those agents showed up at my door, everything was obliterated. It's a horrible feeling."

She nodded, and the motion was barely visible in the dimness. After a moment, she patted his hand. "For you, Jones, I will consider it."

Indy supposed that was enough. Ducking back under his mosquito net, he shut his eyes and let sleep overtake him.

* * *

Spalko awoke to a bright light against her closed eyelids. The air was heavy and acrid, and she struggled for breath, batting the mosquito net away from her face. She opened her eyes to see the flicker of flames just outside the tent, and a haze of smoke hanging in the air. Jones was snoring loudly, and she reached out to shake his shoulder, snatching up her jacket from the ground. Shoving her feet into her boots, she ducked through the door, Jones following groggily behind.

"What-"

The encampment was on fire. Two tents were completely engulfed in flames, while their food stores – hoisted between two trees to deter animals – were a pile of ash. One soldier appeared out of the darkness, clothes singed and eyes red and watering.

"Fire!" He shouted, doubling over to cough into his hands.

Jones stepped towards him. "How did it start?"

"I don't know, sir. Rossi and I woke up to the smoke, and he dragged me out right before the whole thing went up—"

"Spalko! Can you do a headcount?" Jones sounded calm and authoritative, and she nodded.

Rossi was standing near the burning tents, tossing buckets of water towards the flames. A moment later, another man appeared at the edge of the clearing, dragging another bucket from the nearby creek. Spalko took it from him and threw it over the tent.

"Soldier! Where are the others?"

"All accounted for but Novak."

She spun around, scanning the clearing for the missing soldier. Finding nothing, she jogged back to Jones, keeping her sleeve over her mouth.

"All but one are accounted for-" she shouted, looking over her shoulder at the conflagration. "Is anyone-"

"-No one is inside the tents, ma'am."

Spalko felt a chill creeping up her back. Something was suspicious here, but she had no time to reflect. Returning to the tents, she took her place beside Rossi, throwing water over the flames.

By sunrise, the fire had been extinguished, and ash floated through the air like snow. Jones was covered head to toe in soot, and his face was streaked with sweat. The remaining three soldiers were similarly unkempt, and their faces displayed their exhaustion. Spalko gestured for them to sit.

"At ease."

They settled on the ground, and Jones clapped his hands. "Who was the last person to see Novak?"

"Me, sir." A slim, dark eyed man lifted his chin. "Last night. We were sharing a tent. I woke up when I smelled smoke, and he was already gone."

Spalko glanced at Jones, and he shook his head slightly.

"I find it a little suspicious, sir," Rossi interjected, brushing the ask from his palms.

"How so?" Spalko questioned, feeling the same shiver of unease.

"The tents were still damp from the rain last night. No one brought cigarettes. We didn't even light a campfire."

"Your reasoning is sound, Private Rossi."

Jones raised a finger. "Spalko and I will discuss this further. For now, please see what's salvageable from the tents. We'll move out in an hour."

"Aren't we going to look for Novak, sir?" The skinny man protested.

"No. It seems he's deserted."

"But-"

"—We will not tolerate insubordination," Spalko snapped, waving her hand to silence him. "Prepare to move out."

* * *

Indy walked a few yards ahead of the men, Spalko close behind him. After the previous day's attack, they both held loaded pistols, and Indy scanned the trees automatically, looking for the rustle of leaves or the glint of an arrowhead. The mission was off to a disastrous start, and the circumstances of the fire weighed heavily on his mind. His lungs ached from smoke inhalation, and his fatigues were covered in a gray film of ash. Idly clicking the safety of his handgun, he turned to Spalko.

"How much more can go wrong?" He sighed.

She scowled. Her face and hair were caked with soot. "This isn't a matter of bad luck or poor planning. I believe Novak set that fire."

Indy had the same feeling, but he reminded himself to be skeptical. "The timing of his disappearance is suspicious, yes. But what motive would he have?"

Spalko shrugged. "Perhaps he witnessed someone else setting the fire and was killed to keep him quiet."

"Who?"

"The tribe that fired on us yesterday?"

"Maybe. But why not just shoot a few arrows? They're quieter and arguably more deadly."

She looked thoughtful. "That is a fair point."

Indy returned his gun to the holster. "Until we get to the bottom of this, I think we should assign watches. Make the soldiers double up, just in case there's another traitor in the ranks."

"That's wise." She nodded approvingly.

"Y'know, we make a pretty good team."

She looked down, but Indy didn't miss her grin. He resisted the urge to take her hand, instead letting his fingers brush her arm for a moment.

"It's better than being enemies, as during our previous trip to Akator."

This time, he was the one who smiled. "I wholeheartedly agree."


	22. Pull the Pillars Down

Indy stared down at the river, feet planted at the edge of the precipice. The cliff face looked stable enough, but the stone was slick with rain, and their climbing gear had been ruined by the fire the previous day. Free climbing would be dangerous, but he wasn't sure they had a choice. Dusting off his palms, Indy stepped away from the edge and turned to Spalko.

"What do you think?"

Her face was shielded by a soft-brimmed hat, but Indy didn't miss her grimace. "Can you manage with your wound?"

He ran his fingers over the bandages. The injury still stung, but his arm was functioning normally. "It shouldn't be a problem."

Together, they walked to the edge, estimating the distance. Indy guessed that it would take an hour or two to reach the bottom but walking along the river to search for a better place to descend could take weeks. A fine curtain of mist hung over the river, and the rush of water was loud in his ears. He blinked.

"We still have some ropes. Let's tie a makeshift tether."

"It will have to do," Spalko sighed, gesturing for the men to come forward.

Indy snatched up a rope and looped it around a study tree, knotting it securely. He tested his weight against the harness and nodded.

"Load up!"

As the soldiers tied a second rope to a nearby tree, Indy backed slowly towards the edge, palms already sweating. His pack was heavy against his back, and his heart thudded against his ribs. A few days of sleeping rough had taken their toll, and his joints ached with every step. Carefully, he looped the excess coil around his waist and stepped over the edge.

His shoes skidded against the muddy soil, and he inched downward, reminding himself to move slowly. A few stones skidded towards the river, loosened by his steps. The air was thick and windless, and he could feel his shirt sticking to his back. As he inched past the halfway point, he heard shouts from above, and one of the soldiers stepped over the side, clinging tightly to his tether.

The minutes dragged on, and Indy almost shouted in relief when he felt the sand of the riverbank under his feet. The soldier landed just behind him, and he looked up to see Spalko and a second soldier begin their descent.

From the outset, the man seemed skittish, placing his feet gingerly on the rocks. Spalko moved quickly, scrambling down the incline with practiced ease. Near the halfway point, the soldier misplaced his footing, and he dangled precariously from the rope, swinging wildly away from the cliffside. He began to slide, and his grip loosened. As he plummeted, he reached out instinctively for the rope, instead catching Spalko's shoulder. Dragged backwards by the additional weight, she kept a precarious grip on her own tether. The soldier hit the sand with a sickening thud, just as she began to fall, grasping at the rope to slow her descent.

Twenty feet from the ground, she caught a handhold in the rock. It was enough to stop her momentum, and she slid slowly down, landing on her feet.

Indy jogged towards the fallen man. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle, and his eyes were wide and empty. Cursing under his breath, Indy crouched beside the soldier. He pinched his wrist between his fingers, but he couldn't detect a pulse. Dropping his chin, Indy smoothed the man's rumpled jacket and shut his eyelids.

"Form up!" he shouted over his shoulder. Standing up, he brushed the sand from his trousers. "We depart in five minutes."

* * *

They set up the only remaining tent a few meters from the river. As the two remaining footsoldiers hammered the stakes into the ground, Spalko tended the fire. The smoke kept insects at bay, and she had set a canteen of water to boil over the flames. Wrapping her hand in a strip of cloth, she lifted the vessel from the coals and set it aside to cool. Water-borne pathogens were a danger in the Amazon, and she didn't want to lose her remaining men to dysentery.

The death of Rossi had come as a shock, and she wondered what other unpleasant surprises would confront her on the way to Akator. Her palms were scuffed and stinging from gripping the rope, and her shoulder was deeply bruised. Jones hadn't complained about his arm, but she noticed the way he held it close to his side. She didn't like seeing him in pain, and she hoped that infection wasn't setting in.

There was a crackle of twigs, and Jones appeared at the edge of the forest, carrying an armload of firewood. Night was falling, and a light rain tapped at the leaves above their heads. The fire smoldered and hissed, and Spalko picked up a stick, stirring the coals.

"Sit down," she invited, as Jones dumped his armload of wood. He nodded and dropped down beside her.

One of the soldiers shouted. "Ma'am, we're finished."

Jones flashed a tired grin. "Shall we take first watch?"

"Fine." She turned to address the soldier. "Both of you can sleep. We will take the first watch."

The soldier saluted and disappeared into the tent. Spalko inched closer to Jones, watching rainwater drip from the brim of his hat. It was mostly dry under the canopy, but the air was muggy and damp.

"We cannot afford to lose more men," she mused.

"I know. We are only three days from Akator – we'll just have to be careful."

Her fingers went to the bandage on his forearm. "How is it healing?"

"Fine," Jones said stoically. "A bit better today."

"Good."

There was the buzz of a mosquito near her neck, and she swatted in away. Jones glanced at her. "That was a nasty fall you took."

She hummed dismissively. "Only damaged my pride."

"I'm sure you have plenty left."

She rolled her eyes. Jones tipped up the brim of his hat.

"We should probably have something to eat."

"I am not hungry."

Ignoring her, he extracted an MRE from his knapsack, peeling back the foil. The canteen was cool enough to handle, and he measured a few capfuls of water, pouring them into the container. He fetched a spoon and stirred the concoction a few times. Once satisfied, he pulled a second utensil from his pack.

"Here." He pushed it into her hands, and she took it reluctantly. "At least have a little."

She took a spoonful of the porridge, grimacing at the familiar cardboard taste. Jones sat the MRE between them, and they ate in silence, passing the canteen between them. There was something cozy about sitting together before the fire, and she felt her mood lift a bit.

Setting the empty dish aside, she slid closer to Jones. He laid a hand on her knee.

"Would you like something else? I can-"

She cut him off with a shake of her head. His hand was heavy against her leg, and his jaw was shadowed with stubble. The lines in his face looked a bit deeper in the firelight. Impulsively, she leaned forward to kiss him, and he took her lip between his teeth. Everything narrowed to the heat of his mouth on hers and the crawl of his fingers over her thigh. His other hand was at her waist, but he withdrew it suddenly, and she felt him start to fiddle with the buttons of her trousers. She froze.

An image of Marion floated into her mind. She hadn't known the woman well, but she remembered smooth, tanned skin and round cheeks. Irina was suddenly and uncomfortably aware of her own sharp bones and chipped teeth. Her back was rough with scars, and her frame was lean and unfeminine. She had never been particularly concerned with appearances, and her body was never more than a machine to bend to her will. She could hit a target at 50 meters, could drag a man twice her size off the battlefield. But now, she looked at herself critically, and her cheeks colored with shame.

"Wait." She peeled his hand away, suddenly uneasy.

"What is it?" There was a flash of irritation in his eyes, but it quickly turned to concern.

She frowned "I am not opposed to taking this further…"

"…But?"

"I'd advise you to manage your expectations."

"What do you mean?"

Glancing quickly at the tent to ensure the men were still sleeping, she shrugged off her jacket. Next, she shed her undershirt, folding it carefully to steady her nerves. The firelight did nothing to hide the scars and discolored patches on her back and abdomen. She remembered taking off her jacket with Kuznetsov all those months ago, proud to display how she'd suffered for the motherland. But now, with Jones looking on, she wanted nothing more than to cover herself.

"Hey," he caught her wrist. "What's this about?"

She stared at the dirt beneath her feet, irritated at his obtuseness. "I believe the expression is, 'ripping off the bandage.'"

"Irina, what bandage?"

"Don't pretend that you do not see my scars."

"Oh," he responded softly. He laced his fingers with hers. "I don't give a damn about that."

His reaction was surprising, and she stayed frozen in place, digging her nails into his palm.

"But I don't mean to rush you. If we need to slow down, that's fine."

She nodded thoughtfully. It was probably a prudent suggestion, but as she replaced her camisole and reached for her jacket, she noted the unspoken disappointment in his eyes. There was a new tension between them, and she almost regretted voicing her thoughts. Eager for a distraction, she pulled her wristwatch from her jacket pocket. It was nearly time to wake the soldiers, and she gained her feet, glancing at Jones.

"Our watch is nearly over. I will alert the men."

Half in shadow, she saw him nod.

* * *

Mac waited in the back of a bar in Peru, holding a cheap cigarette in his teeth. He'd accompanied the others as far as Lima, but Ross had instructed him to stay in the capital until their mission was complete. He'd been happy enough to spend his time loitering in pubs, sampling the local spirits, but things had since gone sideways. He'd arrived at his hotel to find a heavy-jawed man waiting in the lobby, a Ruger half-hidden under his coat. He'd trailed McHale to his suite and entered without asking, instead slapping a stack of American bills on the end table. Mac had immediately guessed that he was Russian, but the blur of an accent confirmed it.

Apparently, the Soviets knew he'd double-crossed them, but they weren't worried, so long as he would perform a task for them. Eyes flitting between the money and the gun, Mac had agreed immediately. Now, he stood smoking beside a payphone, waiting for his handler to make contact. His palms were slick with sweat, and his open shirt was wilted and rumpled. At the front of the bar, a chorus of cheers broke out, and he heard the shouted chorus of a Spanish drinking song.

The phone rang, and he almost ripped it out of the wall in his hurry to answer. "McHale here."

"Good evening. I trust that the task is complete?'

"Sure is."

"Very good. When we know the results, you will receive the rest of the money."

Mac stubbed the cigarette out on the wall. "Brilliant."

"In the future, we may have other tasks for you."

Ignoring the twinge of guilt, Mac grinned widely. "I'm at your service."

The voice on the other end turned to static, and Mac was alone.


	23. Rise Up and Fall

Just before dawn, Indy awoke with a start. Through the tent flap, the sky was beginning to turn gray, and the trees were shrouded with mist. It was unusually quiet, save for the rush of the river and the rustling of leaves. Dragging a hand over his face, he grunted, shifting to find a comfortable position on the hard ground.

He had dreamed of Marion again, the same dream of wreckage and fire and plumes of black smoke. A few months ago, these dreams had never failed to tear him apart, and he'd usually processed them over a pint of liquor and a shot glass. But now, although the familiar ache was there, it felt less urgent. He had loved Marion, yes, and her death had been a knife in the gut. But the grief was losing its sharp edges, and he was learning to live with the guilt that remained.

Glancing across the tent, he found Spalko still asleep, mosquito net fastened securely over her bedroll. The events of the previous night came to his mind, and he felt a different type of guilt. He had gotten carried away, and he hadn't considered how her rough few months might be relevant. He had been so eager to move past the pain of Marion's accident, and as soon as the guilt became manageable, he'd rushed to action. He resolved to talk to her as soon as he found an opening.

The sun was beginning to rise, burning off the mist that still hovered near the ground. Spalko sat up suddenly, tossing the mosquito net aside. She nodded to him, and began folding her bedroll, returning the mosquito net to her pack. Indy did the same, pulling on his jacket and replacing his cap. Spalko walked to the door and retrieved her boots, shaking them out to dislodge any insects. A spider skittered towards the door, and she watched it silently, still holding her shoes.

As she prepared to leave, Indy cleared his throat. "Can we talk for a second?"

"Fine." Her bearing was stiff and proper, but she clenched and unclenched her hand at her side.

"Come sit."

She gave him a sidelong glance. "What is this about?"

He blurted out the words before he could lose his nerve. "I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable last night."

Even before he finished speaking, she was shaking her head. "You did nothing wrong."

"You seemed pretty upset."

"A momentary loss of control-"

"—No," he interrupted, taking her hands. "I mishandled the situation."

He watched her expression change as she considered this.

"I meant what I said, though. I like you as you are."

She scoffed at this, but her fingers tightened around his. "And I like you. I never expected such a development, but the world is a bewildering place."

He grinned. "Indeed."

From outside the tent, there were shouts, then the crackle of flames as the soldiers rekindled the fire. Reluctantly, he dropped her hands and got to his feet. The conversation had taken a weight off his shoulders, and the assurance that she reciprocated his affections made him giddy. Unzipping the tent, he stepped outside into morning sunlight.

* * *

They followed the river for several kilometers, making poor time on the sandy ground. Spalko walked along the edge of the water, scanning the shoreline for an appropriate place to launch their raft. The heat made it difficult to draw a breath, and her eyes stung with sweat. Jones walked beside her, bandanna knotted around his forehead.

They came to a calmer stretch of water, and she stood on her toes, scanning the surface for rapids or debris. Once satisfied, she looked to Jones.

"Prepare the raft," he directed the soldiers, and they scrambled to do his bidding.

She watched as they began unpacking the self-inflating raft, stored until now in an unopened case. Wiping her face with her sleeve, she came forward to assist them.

The roar of an explosion knocked her off her feet, and she slammed into the ground face first. Half conscious, she felt a wave of heat pass over her, and there was the stench of gunpowder and burning plastic. Her ears were ringing, and she tasted blood.

She stayed still for five more seconds, ignoring the sharp pain in her spine, then pushed up on her elbows. It took her a moment to process the scene before her. The raft was now a smoldering pile of melted plastic, and the sand was black with soot. The crumpled bodies of the two remaining soldiers lay beside the wreckage, and the beach was scattered with shards of metal.

Jones appeared in her peripheral vision. "What the hell was that?"

"…A bomb," she responded through gritted teeth, letting her arms collapse. She noticed a spot of blood on Jones' fatigue pants, just above his shin. "You're bleeding."

"Just a flesh wound," he assured her, walking towards the bodies of the soldiers. "Sit tight, okay?"

There was a pain like an ice pick behind her eyes, and she wondered if she'd sustained a concussion. She could feel blood trickling down her face, and the scene before her pitched and shivered. As long as she stayed still, she could keep the nausea at bay.

A moment later, Jones returned from his futile task. "They're dead."

She hummed in acknowledgement.

"You don't look too good yourself."

She turned her head away. "It's too bright."

"Oh." He knelt at her side, and his shadow fell over her. "Is that better?"

It was, but she was too dizzy to respond. Her stomach churned, and she turned her head to vomit in the sand.

He winced. "Stay still for a minute…"

She felt him pry her eye open, and she didn't resist. Noting her pupil size, he pinched her wrist between his fingers, counting under his breath.

He gently let her hand fall. "Could be a concussion."

The darkness gathering at the edges of her vision supported this notion.

* * *

Indy had managed to scavenge enough tarpaulin for a lean-to, and he'd picked a few other items from the smoking remains of their supplies. The tent was destroyed, as was much of their food and laboratory equipment. They had enough rations for a few days, and his pack contained weapons and a length of rope. They had survived with less, and Indy was not particularly concerned with this aspect of the situation.

The lean-to offered protection from the evening rain, and Indy sat hunched before a kerosene lantern, inspecting the small piece of shrapnel lodged in his leg. He'd sterilized a pair of pliers, and now he rolled up his cuff, preparing to remove it. A few feet away, Spalko was lying underneath his coat, conscious but pale. He'd wiped the blood from her face and given her a fistful of painkillers from the remaining first aid kit, but she was obviously still uncomfortable.

She watched without comment as he pried the shrapnel from his calf, steeling himself as the pliers closed around the protruding bit of metal. Tugging the splinter free, he cursed through gritted teeth. The cut was not deep, but even shallow wounds could be dangerous in the jungle. He remembered Irina pouring sterile alcohol on his arm a few days prior, and he retrieved the bottle, tensing as the liquid stung his skin. He flung the piece of metal away, wiped the pliers on his jacket sleeve, and returned the items to his pack.

Bandaging the injury was a bit awkward, and he bent forward, looping the cloth around his leg.

Spalko coughed. "Let me do it."

He shook his head and knotted the end of the cloth around his ankle. "I'll manage."

He took a place beside her, plucking off his hat and sitting it nearby. He kept his gun in its holster, and his knife was laid out beside the hat. The rain was loud against the tarp, but the space beneath was mostly dry.

Indy skimmed his fingers over her forehead. "How do you feel?"

"My head hurts a bit, but I'll be ready to carry on tomorrow."

His hand stilled. "I'm not sure that's wise. We lost most of our equipment in the explosion, and all of our men are dead-"

"-We're nearly to Akator. Ross may not authorize another expedition."

He considered this, calculating how long it would take to reach Akator with both of them injured. He remembered the loud crack of the explosion, and he felt suddenly uneasy. "This trip has been ill-fated from the start."

"The raft was packed with explosives. That is not fate; it is human action."

"Fair enough."

"Do you think Ross intended to kill us?'

"Not Ross," Indy responded decisively. "Why would he expend the resources to send us to Akator? He could've had us shot back in Alaska and no one would've been the wiser."

"Then who?" Her voice grew weaker, but her eyes were still bright with interest.

"The Soviet Union? I doubt they take kindly to fugitives."

"My countrymen would not kill me," she murmured. "They'd rather I returned to serve my sentence."

Indy bit back an argument. No doubt the Soviets _would_ order her death, if only to keep her from talking. She knew a great deal about experimental weapons programs, and her defection would threaten the security of the Union. But she didn't look well, and he didn't want to provoke an argument. There would be time enough for arguing when she recovered.

Instead, he changed subjects. "Do you remember out first conversation?"

She looked bewildered. "In Nevada?"

"Yes."

"Of course. You mocked my accent."

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, wincing at the memory. "And you tried to read my mind!"

"It was simply an interrogation tactic-"

"-And not a very effective one."

"I will concede that."

He laughed quietly, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "You should try to rest. I'll gather kindling for the fire."

* * *

Everything was as it had been the previous day. The bar was packed with raucous celebrants, and the smell of cigar smoke and too many bodies filled the back hallway. Mac leaned against the wall, receiver pressed to his ear. He felt a bit tipsy from his gin and tonic, and yesterday's hangover still fogged his thoughts. Tapping his fingers impatiently against the smoke-yellowed wallpaper, he waited for a break to speak.

"…Our men will be waiting at Akator to pick off any stragglers."

"Bold of you to assume they're still alive. We packed their equipment with enough explosives to kill an elephant."

"Curious use of hyperbole, Mr. McHale."

"I did my bloody job," he spat, irritated by the Russian's dismissive attitude. Mac felt eyes turning in his direction, and he lowered his voice.

"We know. You are not our only operative."

"Speaking of which, you better go to Akator prepared. If either of them survived-"

He heard the Russian sniff. "-That is all. Good night, Mr. McHale."

Mac let the receiver fall from his hands, not bothering to hang up. While the money was decent, he still felt a pang of remorse when he thought of Jones. Indy had never been one for quiet, and he would have gotten himself killed eventually, but Mac resented being the instrument. Still, his debts continued to accumulate, and he couldn't exactly be choosy when offered work. Kicking the receiver and tangled cord aside, he headed to the bar to order another gin.


	24. You are the Sentinels

Despite the shadow of the canopy above, the air was as hot as a furnace. Spalko followed Jones through the trees, clothes still damp from the morning's rainstorm. They had rested by the river for two days, but their dwindling supplies had convinced them to continue on. Spalko still felt weak and dizzy, and her bruised ribs protested with every breath. Jones wore a thick bandage over his shin, and he limped a little as he walked. Neither of them was in optimal shape for the trek to Akator, but pushing ahead was the only viable option.

As she trudged forward, Irina recalled her previous visit to the lost city. She had been at the height of her career, with an army at her disposal and all the knowledge in the world at her fingertips. Now, she felt strangely disconnected with that woman, as if she were a stranger. She had been fervently devoted to the Soviet Union, willing to kill and die for the glory of the motherland. The knowledge that her country had tortured her and left her to die in a labor camp weighed heavily. In her head, she maintained that the Union was fundamentally just and that those condemned to the gulag were traitors of the worst sort. But then how had she wound up at Chistilishche? The contradiction bothered her deeply.

As she tried to untangle her thoughts, the pain in her temples grew sharper. Her head wound had scabbed over, but the concussion remained. They had run out of painkillers the previous day, and it was becoming harder to ignore her injuries. Up ahead, Jones was slowing down, and he waved a hand in her direction.

"You look tired," he commented, rummaging in his bag for the canteen.

"No more than you." Again, she noticed the way in which he was favoring his right leg. "You are limping."

He shrugged her off, retrieving the canteen and replacing his pack. He took a sip, then handed it to her.

She drank, grimacing at the tinny taste of the water. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she stared at him.

"How long to Akator?"

"Two days," he guessed, taking the canteen and returning it to his pack.

They had a small amount of scientific equipment remaining but taking samples would be more difficult without the proper tools. She wondered if it would be more prudent to turn back, but she feared the consequences of failing. Ross would not hesitate to have her shot once she outlived her usefulness. Returning with samples from Akator would buy her time.

She followed Jones down the trail, placing her feet carefully on the slippery carpet of leaves. She felt suddenly trapped, hemmed in by dense jungle, the air thick and unbreathable. Her rifle was heavy against her back, and she pushed forward, ordering herself to remain calm. Panic would do her no good. Still, the idea of returning to Ross empty handed was frightening, and she was fiercely determined to reach Akator.

* * *

A few kilometers later, the forest dropped off steeply, interrupted by high, stone cliffs. Long-ago travelers had carved a narrow path along the cliffside, and someone had threaded a rope through a series of rusted metal loops. The rope was yellowed and fraying, but Spalko supposed that the path was wide enough to use without the extra handhold. Still, as she stared down at the rocky canyon hundreds of meters below, she felt a prickle of unease.

Jones stepped forward, testing his weight against the rope. It held, and he grinned. "That's a surprise!"

"It holds for now, but it may give out halfway down the path."

His face fell. "Always so practical."

Irina knelt to re-lace her boots, then tightened the straps of her knapsack. Her heart was thudding loudly, but she still stepped towards the edge.

"There is no alternate route. It's best not to hesitate."

Before stepping into the abyss, Spalko brushed her hand over his cheek. "Move cautiously."

"I will," he assured her quietly.

They stepped onto the ledge. Irina pressed a steadying hand to the cliff wall, placing her feet carefully. The path was narrow, and she angled her body towards the wall, craning her neck to observe the trail ahead. Bits of stone broke off under her hands, and the path beneath her feet was uneven and slippery with fallen stones. She inched forward, resisting the urge to glance back at Jones.

After a few minutes, the path began to widen, and she found herself on solid ground. Stepping back, she watched anxiously as Jones finished the climb. Readjusting his cap over his forehead, he nudged her shoulder. "I don't look forward to repeating that on the way back."

She cringed. "I did not think of that."

* * *

Ross was displeased to find himself back in Iquitos, and even more disappointed to see the face that greeted him. Marino sported a new pair of glasses and a sharper uniform, but he still wore his customary sneer. As Ross entered the room, he didn't bother to stand.

"I am surprised to see you here again." Marino licked his lips, but his face was otherwise still.

"Quite frankly, I'm surprised to be here again." Ross took a seat at the card table, folding his hands. The basement was as cold and dank as he'd remembered it, and he tensed under his light uniform jacket.

"I heard you have a proposal for me?" Ross inflected.

"Yes. There was an…incident when Jones and Spalko left for Akator."

"What kind of incident?"

"You should have received the report. The party was targeted by arrows from an unknown source."

"And? The tribes in the areas are known to be unfriendly to trespassers."

"There was a second incident last night. Their tents were set on fire."

"By whom?"

"That is uncertain. Captain Rossi managed to radio before they traveled out of range, but the connection was weak."

Ross stroked his chin. These were indeed interesting developments, but he failed to see what they had to do with Marino's invitation. "Why did you invite me here?"

Marino showed his teeth in what Ross guessed was meant to be a grin. "I think this warrants investigation."

"What do you propose?"

"We send a team to overtake Jones and Spalko and head them off at Akator. The soldiers can provide additional security."

"We already sent six soldiers with them! Surely that's enough for security—"

"—Furthermore, I do not trust Spalko. I wouldn't be surprised if she were behind these incidents."

Ross hummed under his breath, then nodded in agreement. "She agreed to work with us far too easily."

"So you accept this plan?"

"Yes," Ross responded, nodding decisively. He leaned back, and the folding chair creaked under his weight.

Again, Marino flashed his teeth. "Excellent. I'll dispatch the team immediately."

* * *

They were less than a day's walk from Akator, and Indy could feel his body beginning to give out. His leg wound burned, and his face was peeling with sunburn. They had stopped in a clearing, and he'd managed to tie up their tarp between the trees. It was raining steadily, so they hadn't bothered to light a fire. Still dressed in his waterlogged jacket and boots, he stretched out beside Spalko, listening to the rustle of branches in the darkness.

Spalko also looked a bit ragged, with her ribs bound tightly over her undershirt and a bandaged gash across her forehead. She had fallen asleep almost immediately, and her hand was nestled under his. After Akator, he hoped they'd have time to recuperate before Ross demanded another task. They'd both had a rough time of it, and he just wanted to rest and recover in her company.

Indy was reluctant to use the word _love_ ; he'd only claimed such a feeling once before, and it had ended with broken dishes and a last-minute train ticket six days before the wedding. Sometimes he wondered if there was any reality in which his relationship with Marion could have survived. She had been beautiful and explosive and vivacious, but they were too much alike. Marion was hotheaded and slow to forgive, and Indy was stubborn and prone to callousness. He cherished the time they'd shared, and her death would always hurt, but something had shifted in the past few weeks.

Brushing these thoughts away, he stared out into the rain. A flash of lightning illuminated the trees, and in the brief wash of light, he noticed that Spalko was awake. He turned towards her.

"Are your ribs bothering you?" He asked softly.

"A little," she admitted, pressing a hand gingerly to her side.

"I can rewrap the bandages-"

She silenced him with a shake of her head. The light caught in her pale eyes and drew her angular features into sharp relief. It was raining harder now, and she moved closer to him, shivering in the damp air.

"You are so kind to me, Jones. But I'll manage."

Spalko had turned away from him, and her back was pressed against his chest. He arranged his arm carefully over her waist, avoiding her injured ribs. He liked this closeness, the tickle of her hair in his face, the slight rise and fall of her breathing. Outside the tent, the rain was falling in buckets, and lightning flickered above the trees. He closed his eyes.

* * *

Only a few hours from Akator, they began to encounter scattered Mayan ruins, the crumbled edifices covered with moss and fallen leaves. Patches of paving stones interrupted the muddy forest floor, and the ground was scattered with bits of carved rock and fallen brick. Spalko took in the ruins with interest, pausing to inspect a chipped marble obelisk.

Jones waved her on, eyes wide with unease. "Let's not linger too long."

There was no sign of human habitation, but she followed him anyway, picking carefully through the rubble. The day was hot, and she wore her jacket loose and unbuttoned. Her hair was covered by her cap, and as she returned to the shade of the trees, she noted the drop in temperature.

Jones was carrying their pack, and his limp had seemingly improved since the previous day. A bandana was knotted around his forehead, and he'd added a thin coating of mud to his face to prevent further sunburn. Spalko jogged to his side and waved her empty canteen in the air.

"We are almost out of water."

He looked slightly concerned, staring into the distance and narrowing his eyes. "We'll replenish our supply at Akator."

She made a gesture of agreement and returned the canteen to her belt. They worked together so easily now, and she predicted that this would make their inevitable separation more difficult. Spalko did not want to dwell on eventualities, but surely there was no future for them. She _would_ return to the Soviet Union, whether tomorrow or in five years' time. She felt something strong for Jones, but she did not belong to herself. Her entire being was devoted to her motherland, and she did not wish to hurt Jones by leaving him behind.

The situation was peculiar, she'd admit. She had nothing left in Russia and returning would certainly be suicide. But Irina was nothing without the motherland, and her life mattered little compared to the greater welfare of her people. Enlisting in the Red Army had kept her alive through the war, and it had given her an escape from the ignorance and violence of home.

The inhabitants of her home village had been superstitious and largely illiterate. As the child of a mixed marriage between a Tatar mother and Ukrainian father, Irina had been born under a cloud of suspicion. She had an eidetic memory and a particular talent for reading faces, and these unusual skills had only earned her scorn. Her ability to read set her apart for the other village children, and her dabbling in dissection and collecting medicinal plants earned her the title _witch_. The Soviet Union had rescued her, a dirty and uneducated child with little worth outside her hunger to learn. That debt could never be repaid, but Spalko had always resolved to try.

Burdened by these thoughts, Spalko shoved her hands into her pockets, walking slowly behind Jones. Her boots stuck in the mud, and she dropped her head as she passed beneath a tangle of low-hanging vines. Sweat plastered her hair to her neck, and she breathed shallowly in the heavy air.

Up ahead, Jones shouted. The jungle stopped abruptly before a stretch of sand, and he stepped forward, pointing up at a large boulder. Faint carvings decorated the stone, and a trickle of water ran down the rock face.

"This is it. Akator."


	25. The World is Lit by Lightning

The valley was blanketed with fog, obscuring the ruins and half-submerged structures below. The lake had receded a bit since their last visit, and the entrance to the tunnels was intact and visible above the water line. Starting down the hill, Indy wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Spalko walked just behind him, uniform jacket knotted around her waist. Her head was uncovered, and she cupped a hand over her eyes, looking downwards.

"If the tunnels have flooded, we'll need to find an alternate route," she commented.

He shrugged. "We're in no hurry."

It was not exactly true. Both of their injuries were healing nicely, and they'd managed to make good time the previous day. However, Ross expected them back in Iquitos at the end of the month, and they were still behind schedule. He hoped to collect their samples quickly and depart Akator within a few days. Glancing back at Spalko, he scrambled down the steep incline and stopped at the mouth of the tunnel.

The space was dark and damp, and he could hear the drip of water in the distance. A pile of fallen stones and rotting leaves partially blocked the path, but the floor of the passage itself was relatively clear. Climbing inside, Jones drew his handgun and waited for his eyes to adjust.

Spalko kept her rifle strapped across her back, and she scaled the debris pile nimbly. She had been oddly quiet since arriving at Akator, and she shivered a little as she walked into the darkness.

"I am uneasy."

Truth be told, Jones felt it, too. "You're jumping at shadows," he said, with a confidence he didn't really feel.

"No." She swung her rifle around, pressing the stock to her shoulder. "Something is wrong here."

They kept walking, and Indy felt a chill creep up his back. Spalko stopped suddenly, holding up an arm.

"Look."

A few yards ahead, something metallic caught the light. Gesturing for him to be quiet, Spalko picked up a rock. Letting his finger hover over the trigger, Indy gripped his weapon, backing up a bit. Spalko tossed the stone and it hit the ground with a thud.

There was a sudden _crack_ , and then a wall of flames was rushing towards them. They both hit the ground instantly, and Indy could smell burning hair as the shockwave passed over his body. The air was hazy with smoke, and a bright light emanated from the explosion point. Indy counted to twenty and put his head up.

The corridor was empty, the walls singed and smeared with ash. The flames had nearly died out, and so Indy got to his feet, offering Spalko his arm. She groaned.

"You're bleeding," she observed, brushing cinders from her fatigues.

His chin stung a bit, and he dabbed at it gingerly. His fingers came back bloody, and he wiped them on his jacket.

"What was that?'

She strode ahead until she reached a pile of crumpled metal. She kicked it. "RG-42 grenade. Soviet manufacture."

Their eyes met, and he could see the dismay in her expression. The tunnels branched out to the left, and he could hear the patter of running footsteps. There was a chorus of shouts in Russian.

Heart pounding, Indy pointed in the opposite direction. "Run!"

* * *

Gripping her rifle, Spalko crept back towards the wall, eyes focused on the passageway ahead. They had reached a dead end, and she knew that their pursuers were only a few minutes behind them. The shock that her countrymen had attacked her, had tried to kill her, hadn't yet registered. She kept a tight grip on her thoughts, focusing on the cold of the trigger against her finger. Far below, she could hear the rush and churn of the water, and through a gap in the ruined wall, she glimpsed gray and roiling waves.

Beside her, Jones was reloading his handgun. The cut along his jawline had stopped bleeding, but there was a streak of dried blood on his neck. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and he squinted down at the weapon, sliding the stock back into place. His expression was tense, and his eyes were widened slightly.

"Start firing as soon as you see them. Irina, please don't hesitate because they're-"

 _Because they are my countrymen._ Spalko couldn't promise such a thing, but the fear in his eyes prompted her to nod. She hoped that there would be time to negotiate, that they would see that she still lived and breathed for the Soviet Union. She wouldn't allow herself to consider the alternative scenario. Gulping down the rising nausea, she scanned the darkened passageway for movement.

There was the crunch of footsteps on broken stone. Irina moved forward a bit, squinting into the shadows. Her rifle was pressed against her shoulder, and she inclined her head, gazing through the sight. There was a rush of air behind her, and she whipped around, too late to react.

A large figure dove from the top of the wall behind them, knocking Jones cleanly to the ground. He shouted, struggling with the much taller man for control of the handgun. Spalko brought her rifle to bear, as Jones' handgun went flying towards the opposite wall. Her hand hovered on the trigger, and the man stood up, keeping one boot on Jones' shoulder.

There was a chorus of shouts as reinforcements began pouring through the tunnel, all dressed in Soviet gray fatigues. Spalko hesitated for a moment, glancing between Jones and the amassed troops. Jones thrashed and struggled under the soldier's foot, shouting curses.

A voice addressed her in Russian. "Dr. Spalko, please drop your weapon."

Automatically, she loosened her grip. The gun clattered to the ground. She started to get to her knees, but the speaker stepped into view, gesturing for her to remain standing. He was thin and red-headed, and she recognized the man who had accompanied Jones to spring her from Chistilishche.

"Danil?"

He nodded curtly, turning to address Jones. "Your friend McHale was too craven to come here himself. However, he pays well-."

Still pinned to the ground, Jones growled, "-He's not my friend."

Spalko cleared her throat, drawing Danil's attention. "Why have you come here?"

He switched fluidly back to Russian, turning his back on Jones. "To kill you. Your escape from the gulag was a great embarrassment to the Union."

She didn't react to the words. "I did not leave of my own volition. You know this."

He nodded. "It hardly matters. The Union wants a bullet in your head, and it shall be done."

She flinched involuntarily. "My loyalty to the Soviet cause has never faltered. If I may-"

"—No. There is not enough proof in the world to convince us you are not a threat."

Spalko felt the desperation rising, and she clenched her fists. She was not afraid of death, but the thought of going to her grave hated and distrusted by her motherland was agonizing. She tried again.

"At least let me return with you to Russia. I will serve out the rest of my sentence."

He adjusted his spectacles, and she wondered for a moment if he was considering her proffer. Then his lips curled upward. "I have an idea."

"Yes?"

He waved towards the ground. "Pick up the rifle."

She nodded stiffly and obeyed. She didn't understand the purpose of his command, but it hardly mattered.

"Now…"

As if prearranged, the soldier pinning Jones to the floor stepped away. Two men dragged him to his feet, and he spat out a mouthful of grit and blood, glowering defiantly.

"Tell him to stand up straight," Danil commanded in Russian, pointing to Jones.

Jones snorted. "My Russian's pretty rusty, pal. You'll have to say it in English-"

"-Shut up."

He returned his attention to Spalko. "You may return to Russia on one condition. We have a task that must be completed."

"Fine." She bowed her head slightly.

"You must conduct an execution."

"Of?"

"Your friend there." He pointed to Jones, and Spalko was suddenly cold.

Danil continued to pontificate, but Spalko heard nothing but a high-pitched whine. Her chest squeezed tightly, and she struggled to draw breath. She watched herself as if from afar, hands wrapped around the rifle stock, staring at Danil in abject horror. She saw herself step forward, raise the weapon, lower it. Far away, Jones was yelling, but she didn't understand the words.

Danil was offering her the chance to return home. Through every freezing night and savage beating, through every day spent laboring under Ross' tyrannical eye, she had wished this moment into being. She would be restored to her former glory as a colonel in the KGB. She would continue researching novel weapons in Moscow, with all of the knowledge in the world at her fingertips. The thought made her eyes sting.

And yet, what they were asking of her was impossible - Danil had to know this. Jones was the last obstacle to obliterate before she could rejoin the ranks of the Red Army. As a soldier, she had killed hundreds of enemy operatives. She was not squeamish. But Jones had become her ally in a time when she had nothing to offer. For months, she had been drifting in a dark ocean, and he had been the map of stars above her head. Spalko didn't believe in romantic love, but what she felt for Jones went beyond infatuation.

Setting her jaw, she tightened her grip on the gun. "Step aside, Danil."

He stretched out his hand, grinning.

Jones gaped at her, seemingly having understood the gist of Danil's order. Averting her eyes, Irina glanced at the two men flanking him. The man to the left stepped aside a few centimeters, brushing a bit of dirt from his coat.

Spalko seized the moment.

Everything exploded into a blur of gunfire and smoke. Spalko had managed to hit the man to the right cleanly in the head, and he fell instantly. She saw Jones dive for the door, and then heard a guttural yell as Danil realized what had happened. Something hot brushed over her cheek, and then there was a stabbing pain in her thigh. Rolling cleanly towards the ruined wall, she stayed below the smoke. A third bullet slammed into her knee, and she dragged herself towards the gap in the bricks, adrenaline masking the pain of the wounds.

The water was at least ten meters below, cloudy and full of debris. Her leg was strangely heavy, and she heard another volley hit the wall above her head. Sensing that her time to hesitate was over, Spalko pushed herself through the gap. Her fingers gripped the cold brick as she gathered her courage. Just as her grip loosened, she felt the impact of a body slamming into her back. Off balance, she lurched forward and the water rushed up to meet her.

* * *

Indy felt a shock of cold as the water closed over his head. The lake was brackish and cloudy, and he felt his boot sink into the muddy lakebed. There was a faint glow of sunlight somewhere above, and he clawed upwards, lungs already burning. He broke the surface with a splash, gulping air and flailing to keep himself afloat. His hat was gone, and he kicked off his waterlogged shoes.

He spotted Spalko a few feet away. She floated on her back, limp and barely moving. With a jolt of terror, he hooked an arm around her shoulders and began dragging her towards shore. Swimming with one arm slowed him down, and his heart beat painfully against his ribs. When he finally felt the sand of the beach beneath his feet, he stumbled out of the water, collapsing in exhaustion.

Beside him, Spalko coughed. Her eyes were open but glazed, and her hair stuck to her face. Her uniform trousers were soaked with blood, and he spotted two neat bullet holes in the vicinity of her knee. The shot to her thigh seemed to have missed the femoral artery, but he still tore a strip from his undershirt, fashioning a tourniquet.

He shook her shoulder gently. "You're losing a lot of blood. I'm going to apply a tourniquet, okay?"

There was no response, and so he set to work, tightening the wrapping. She winced.

Wrapping his hand in the remains of his undershirt, he applied pressure to the wounds. His hands were sticky with blood, but he tried to remain calm. As he worked, he spoke to her.

"Just try to stay conscious. You know, there was a moment when I thought you were really going to shoot me. But the fact – the fact that you chose to save my life-"

There was a tightness in his throat. Using one hand to retain pressure, he shrugged out of his jacket and tore the lining. Folding it haphazardly, he replaced the dressing.

"—I love you, Irina."

She startled. Then, with great effort, she moved her fingers to brush his arm.

There was a humming in the air above, then a flash of metal. Across the lake, he spotted an American transport helicopter descending towards the beach, stirring up clouds of dust. Jones sprang up, waving his arms. He felt a spark of hope as the craft landed and half a dozen men climbed to the ground.

He shouted across the water, "Hurry! We need medical attention!"

* * *

Spalko stayed as still as possible, blocking out the hum of voices above her head. She was lying on something soft, and the pitch and rock of the surface beneath suggested that she was aboard the aircraft. Her wet and bloodied fatigues had been replaced with a thermal blanket, and there was a slight sting in the crook of her elbow. She guessed that she had been given a sedative – the pain in her leg had faded to a dull ache, and her memory was fuzzy.

About the events at Akator, however, a cold clarity remained. When she'd pulled the trigger, she'd obliterated any chance of returning to her homeland. She did not regret the choice – nothing would have induced her to harm Jones – but the Soviet Union had been her _raison d'etre_. A dark and ugly part of her wished she hadn't survived the confrontation. She had the sense of existing in a world in which she no longer belonged, and her chest ached with dread.

There was the tap of boots against the flight deck, and she forced her eyes open. The medic sat on a bench near the window, rifling through a plastic first aid kit. Jones had settled on the floor beside her, holding her hand. Her limbs were still largely numb, and she hadn't noticed his presence.

He brushed her forehead with his free hand. "How are you feeling?"

She grimaced. "Tell the medic to put me out again."

"That bad, huh?" He glanced down at the bandages in concern.

"No. I just-" She felt a roughness in her throat, but she wouldn't allow herself to weep.

Jones reached out to stroke her hair. "Shh."

She blinked hard. "I'll never go back to the Soviet Union."

He sighed. "No, probably not."

"That is a…difficult pill to swallow." She struggled for the words.

"I know."

They sat in silence for a moment, and Spalko watched beams of sunlight shiver against the ceiling. The rotors whirred steadily, and the wind rocked the transport upwards. Jones kept his hand against her hair, and his touch was gentle.

"You know," he ventured carefully. "I have a friend at the University of Buenos Aires. He's offered me work before."

Irina nodded slightly, waiting for him to elaborate.

"The problem is, they're usually two-man jobs. I've always refused, but I'm sure he'd be happy to hear from me."

"Oh?"

"Argentina is a non-aligned country. We'd both be safe there."

She suddenly understood. "Ross will never let us free."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

Her strength fading, Spalko let her eyelids fall. Now that her break with the USSR was complete, she had little conception of what her future would hold. The country had owned her, body and soul, and the idea of doing exactly as she pleased was frightening. Still, Jones was excellent company, and the idea of working together more permanently lifted the weight of anxiety a bit. As she drifted into the dark, she heard a faraway voice ask:

"So what do you say?"

 _Yes._


End file.
